


As Time Moves On

by AnnaofAza, LiProuvaire



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Communication Issues, Harry as Arthur, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mission Fic, Multiple Perspectives, Past Abuse, Post-Movie(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-19 18:32:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11319183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiProuvaire/pseuds/LiProuvaire
Summary: They stand across from each other, and Michelle looks at him, really looks at him since that horrible day. He’s older, greyer in the temples, with a starburst scar across the left side of his forehead. Dark circles are underneath his eyes, eyes with crow’s feet at the edges, and that tan, ratty cardigan bunches around his hips. What Eggsy sees in him—she doesn’t know.Michelle and Harry haven't met since eighteen years ago, but after V-Day, they're forced to come together when the one that they love is hurt.





	1. before

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not exaggerating when I say that this is one of the hardest fics that I have ever written, so I'd like to thank everyone who encouraged me to keep writing after vague panicked tumblr posts, even though they didn't exactly know what I was writing about. A special thanks must be extended to the lovely [notbrogues,](http://notbrogues.tumblr.com) who had the time and energy to be my enabler, sounding board, and cheerleader on top of writing a monster of a KBB _and_ organizing the KBB.  <3
> 
> I was also pleased as punch to collaborate with the amazing liprouvaire, who went above and beyond creating a lot of wonderful artwork for this fic! Thank you so much for capturing the mood and aesthetic and giving me a boost to keep going up until the finish line. You are pretty awesome :) (Check out [liprouvaire's tumblr](http://liprouvaire.tumblr.com) for more amazing graphics!) <3
> 
> Art link is [here!](http://liprouvaire.tumblr.com/post/162360007056/i-still-cant-quite-believe-that-i-got-to). Go reblog it ;)

 

* * *

It’s when she sees Eggsy pull up in a flashy orange car that Michelle begins to have doubts.

“Are you sure that this is all right?” she asks, gesturing to her jeans and one of her button-down tops that don’t have a stain or a snag. Daisy, waving to her brother, is in overalls and a striped blue shirt, a bit of mushy pea on her collar. She’d brushed her curls with a bright pink brush, but between getting ready and eating breakfast, her hair is all flyaways with one butterfly barrette already dangling from her forehead.  

“Don’t worry, Mum, it is.” Eggsy assures her, but since he’s wearing one of his fancy new suits and his hair combed with too much gel, she doesn’t feel particularly sure. The engine is still going, purring like an overly large cat, and looking around, Michelle notices that some of the neighbors have actually come out of their flats to see Eggsy. Two of the Thomas girls are hanging off the balcony, pointing with giggly grins on their faces.  

Eggsy doesn’t seem to notice. “Do you want to change or something?”

Michelle checks the time on her phone, sighing. “I guess we shouldn’t be late,” she says, and settles Daisy into the child seat in the back. Michelle plucks off the pea and tosses it into the gutter, then fixes Daisy’s hair before climbing into the passenger’s side. The seat is butter-soft, smelling like new leather, and the dashboard in front of them has all kinds of glowing symbols and a touch screen.

“Sweet ride, yeah?” Eggsy asks, grinning at her. “One of the perks.”

Michelle doesn’t smile back. “Of a tailor?”

If she’s not mistaken, Eggsy smirks a little before replying, “Yeah, a tailor.”

Waiting for them is a woman in a navy blue pantsuit, dark hair swept into a bun. This neighborhood is a far cry from the estates, houses tucked among cobblestone streets and flowering shrubs. It looks quiet, as if all lights would go at eleven. Daisy looks around, mouth in a round _o_ , and Eggsy ruffles her hair before greeting the woman.

“Good morning, Mr. Unwin,” she says, pulling Eggsy’s hand into hers and giving it a firm shake. “And this is your mother, yes?”

“Yes, that’s my mum,” Eggsy replies, beaming at her, and Michelle’s too surprised at his sudden BBC announcer accent to immediately return the gesture.

“Good morning, Ms. Unwin,” she says, shaking Michelle’s hand. “I’m Nancy Whaite. Lovely to meet you. Shall we get started?”

Ms. Whaite leads them into the first house, nodding at different fixtures as if they’re old friends. “Now, here’s the sitting room. The fireplace dates back to the eighteenth century, but you can always retouch it if it doesn’t suit you. Big space, big enough for entertaining, and there’s the bar where you can all sit, chat, mix drinks, that sort of thing.”

Eggsy is nodding politely, snapping photos on his phone. Ms. Whaite’s talking a mile a minute—and really, she’s talking to Eggsy, with his obviously deep pockets and crisp accent. It’s clear who’s buying the house, and Michelle starts noticing how her jeans sag on her hips, how one side of her shirt has been obviously smashed flat by the iron, and how her teeth are yellow around the gums. And compared with Eggsy...who does Ms. Whaite think Michelle is?

Michelle follows them both through house after house, holding onto Daisy’s hand. Daisy seems to like climbing up on the furniture and exploring the gardens, but by the time the visits have passed the four hour mark, she begins grumbling, planting her feet on the floor and crossing her arms at the next threshold. “Noooo,” she complains.

Ms. Whaite looks between both of them, a trace of impatience on her face, but Eggsy bends down so he’s face to face with his sister. “What’s wrong, Dais?” he asks.

“She’s hungry,” Michelle says, glad for the excuse. “I’m going to take her out for a quick lunch.”

Eggsy takes one look at her face and turns to Ms. Whaite. “Thank you for your time, but I think we’re done for the day.”

“Let me know if you wish to reschedule,” she replies, shaking his hand again. “Pleasure to meet you.” She repeats the action with Michelle, then briefly waves at Daisy before heading over to her own car.

When everyone’s all buckled up, Eggsy begins backing out of the driveway, looking over his shoulder. “Garfunkel’s is okay?”

“Yeah,” Michelle says, noting how his original accent is back. “Seems all right.”

Her son hesitates. “Is…was I being an arse again? I wasn’t going to wear the suit, but Roxy said—”

“Oh, Eggsy,” she sighs, shaking her head, “no, no. It’s just…all these houses. I guess it was all a bit much for me.” Leaning her head back against the seat, Michelle continues, “I thought when you said we should look at houses that you meant…well, something like our flat. Just a bit nicer.”

“Mum, money really is…” he hesitates before continuing, “not really a problem. Just tell me what you like.”

“I want a garden for Daisy,” she eventually says. “Nice, big yard.” After that, it’s harder to figure that out. Even with Lee, they’d settled on some place with heat, electricity, and an extra space for what would become their little Eggsy. Now, all these houses have washing machines and dryers and open kitchens and more rooms than she knows what to do with. How is she going to use a formal sitting room with an entertainment center? Does she really need the claw foot tub and two marble sinks? And she hasn't swam in a long time, Daisy doesn't know how to yet, and the weather in London is so bloody inconsistent, so what are they going to do with that swimming pool? Does Eggsy have  _that_ much money to throw around, or is he looking at all these fancy houses just for fun?

Michelle reaches for her purse for a fag, but remembers she's given it up. Instead, she digs around for a stick of gum and begins to chew, trying to replace stinging nicotine with cool mint. Eggsy drives on, occasionally glancing at the backseat to smile at Daisy, whose chin has already dropped to her chest. Michelle studies him, her son in a perfectly-fitting suit and his shoulders back. She swears he's gotten taller, too, and for a moment, her heart aches with the thought of a boy in knitted sweaters and who liked to play with snow globes and blocks. 

“Which one do you like?" she asks. "It wouldn’t be fair to pick out something you would be miserable in.”

Eggsy now pauses, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “Mum,” he says hesitantly, “I’m not…coming with you.”

“What? Where are you going, then?” Michelle asks, startled. He’s gone back with to the old flat after V-Day, so she’d assumed….well, that things would continue as they always were—far better than before with Dean out of the picture. Eggsy had been the one to sweep in after V-Day: changing the locks, temporarily taking care of the rent and groceries, setting her up with a good divorce lawyer, helping her find a decent job, supporting her giving up smokes and drinks, showing her around various car lots, and buying her and Daisy enough presents that Michelle had to tell him to stop. Now, she realizes, in his own way, he'd been steadily preparing her to live without him, and the thought makes her feel adrift, like a scarf let loose in the wind.

“Staying with a friend,” he says, a bit apologetically. “Stanhope Mews.”

"Stanhope Mews," she repeats, then repeats it again. " _Stanhope Mews_. Eggsy, you can't be...you don't want to spend your wages on some mansion, not when you have to pay rent in Stanhope Mews."

"Don't worry, Mum," Eggsy reassures her. A faint smile curls the right side of his lip. "We got it covered." 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 So, months after V-Day, Michelle finds herself sitting with her friends and daughter outside of a café that has flower pots by the large glass windows and waiters who call her _ma'am_. Suited and booted people stroll by without blinking an eye, some even stopping to favor her, Charlotte, Molly, and Irene with a flirtatious smile or coo over Daisy coloring solemnly with a set of crayons.

Just a few months ago, Michelle had been in a flat that wasn’t in her name. And now—now look at her, with styled blonde hair and a new coat and a house in a neighborhood with fences around the trees. All of this wouldn’t have been possible years ago, especially not without her son—her still furtive yet happy son, happier than she's seen him in years. 

“Are you sure, Michelle?”

Michelle turns, trying not to look too startled. Molly’s leaning so her lips are nearly at her ear, trying not to catch the attention of Irene and Charlotte talking about the latest—rather disastrous—visit of the American President to Buckingham Palace. “Are you sure…you want to take the bill? All of it?”

“Oh, yes, go ahead,” Michelle says. “My treat.” Molly especially needs a break and not have to worry about one lunch setting her back on the rent, but not for the last time, Michelle wonders if she’s actually rubbing her new life—most of it coming from her own son’s income—in her old friends’ faces.

Charlotte and Molly are years-long friends, the ones who tried their best to keep an eye on Eggsy and Ryan and Jamal pakouring all over the estates, but Irene's from Michelle's new job at a local kid's clothing store. She's not posh, but she's never set foot in East London. Her kid's around Eggsy's age, but unlike Eggsy, he's training up to be a surgeon. She only knows Michelle as Michelle Unwin, not as Michelle Baker or Michelle née Tooley or  _Poor Michelle, a widow that young._

Only a few months ago, she’d be crouching in her seat, trying not to be spotted in case Dean was watching. Only a few months ago, she wouldn’t have been out in public without Dean or a curfew warning. Only a few months ago, she wouldn’t have even had enough money on her to buy more than a small basket of fish and chips.

Daisy's in her own chair, happily eating her own little lunch of a toasted cheese sandwich with tomatoes and a small bowl of fruit. Michelle eats the melons, which Daisy hates, as the three other women gossip and occasionally point out attractive men passing by the outdoor cafe. 

Charlotte, beside her, then giggles and discretely nods her head in the direction of the park. "Now, look there! Handsome bloke at twelve o'clock!"

Michelle turns, but she can't see much over people's heads, but Molly frowns, shaking her head. “He's got his  _son_ with him, Charlotte! He's probably married.”

“Well, then, let's hope he isn't," Charlotte replies, craning her head. “Fathers are usually quite nice, know how to make sacrifices and whatnot.”

“Not to mention that they probably don't go out drinking and partying at odd hours of the night,” Irene says, and Michelle knows she doesn't mean anything by it, but still privately winces. “He _is_ right fit, though. Oh, Michelle, if you tilt your head towards the right and look...towards that lamppost over there, you'll see him. That one—pinstriped suit and with the younger man, wearing a matching suit. Isn’t that sweet?”

Michelle does what she's told, then nearly drops her fork. “That's—that's  _my_ son!”

_“That's_ Eggsy?” Molly takes a second glance. “You did mention he was working in a tailor ship, Michelle, but  _wow,_ don't he look posh!”

“Oi, Eggsy!” Charlotte calls, eliciting some annoyed stares from all around them, but she ignores them in favor of waving her arm like she's hailing a taxi. “Get over here and say hello! Bring that bloke with you!”

Her son has no choice to approach, smiling a bit awkwardly at all of them and leaning down to ruffle Daisy's hair. The man beside him inclines his head politely at them all, and Michelle's breath seals itself inside her throat. She recognizes that man from years and years ago. He even bloody _looks_ the same, save for the scar that's just above his left eye. And he'd told her—well, not exactly—about what happened to her husband, and if Eggsy's with him— _working_ with him—that could only mean...

Michelle's grip tightens on her fork.

“Look at you, Eggsy, you've grown so much!” Molly exclaims. “Looks like your new job's been treating you well.”

"It's going great, yeah." Eggsy bobs his head, smiling.  

"Who knew you'd be a  _tailor_ , of all things?" Charlotte then exclaims. "That's how you get the fancy suits, yeah?" She then winks at the other man, and not for the first time, Michelle notes where Ryan gets his flirtatious nature from. "All of you get that uniform? Looks right good, especially on you."

Irene puts a hand over her mouth, clearly amused, as the man's eyes briefly widen, before his expression settles into a polite sort of geniality. "Thank you, madam. Every suit is made mostly by hand." 

Before Charlotte can say something that involves the phrase  _I bet you're especially good with your hands,_ Michelle then asks, a bit sharply, "So, Eggsy, mind introducing your...coworker to us?" 

"Oh, yes." Eggsy grins a bit nervously, obviously seeing her less than pleasant expression. "This is Harry, Harry Hart. My boss." 

"He's your  _boss_?" Michelle's eyes narrow. "I see."

"So, Mr. Hart, you're not married?" Charlotte asks brazenly, after taking a good look at Hart's left hand. "You'd think a bloke like you would be hitched to a carriage and mare."

"I _do_ have someone," Hart replies, twisting a gold ring on his left pinky finger. Beside him, her son busies himself with Daisy, making high-pitched cooing noises over her sticky fingers and asking her about the other kids at her school.

"What's she like?" Irene asks curiously. 

"Oh, well. They're—" Hart pauses, and Michelle's pleased to see him looking awkward. “They’re the light of my life,” he begins, “and I’m a better man with them by my side.”

Charlotte puts her hand to her heart as Molly sighs. Michelle might have swooned if she were years and years younger, but she’s been through too much to be fooled by honeyed words.

"Oi, can we not talk about this?" Eggsy suddenly interrupts. 

"Come on, Eggsy, why not have your boss join in on the afternoon gossip?" Charlotte asks. “Besides, he’s being right sweet and all.”

"I—I just don't want to hear about my boss shagging anybody!" Eggsy protests, ears redder than Daisy's strawberries.

"Aw, why, Eggsy, jealous?" Charlotte teases. 

"Yes, last time you had a girlfriend was...Colleen in secondary, right?" Molly muses, tapping her fingers on the table. "Parents worked at a bakery? What  _did_ happen to her? You two looked happy together." 

"I think Eggsy's lunch break is almost over, Molls, so maybe you can save your questions for another time?" Michelle cuts in, guiltily knowing the reasons why Eggsy had stopped bringing girls around. Half of those reasons had to do with Dean. "Eggsy, love, I'll see you this Saturday for a proper supper, right?" 

"Yeah," her son answers, shooting her a grateful look. "Bye, everyone. Bye, Daise, Mum."

Daisy waves as they walk away, Michelle watching the two until they disappear around the corner.

* * *

When Eggsy comes in Saturday, bringing a big, pink box with a ribbon tied on top, Michelle says, “Do you know who your boss is?”

Her son pauses. “Mum,” he begins, only to be ambushed by Daisy.

“Dais,” he coos, setting the box down on the table, then sinking onto the carpet with her. Michelle waits, watching as Eggsy coaxes her into playing with the kitchen playset, the one that has a stove that lights up when a plastic pot is put on one of the burners and a microwave that _dings_ when opened. _He had never had something that nice_ , Michelle remembers thinking when Eggsy presented it to Daisy with a bow and a grin.   

Finally, he stands back up, hands in his trouser pockets, as if he’s a teenager again and evading her questions about the reason behind a call from school. “Harry told me when he found out who I was. He never tried to hide it from me.”

“And yet,” Michelle says, “he told _me_ next to nothing.” She folds her arms. “Where did you say you met him?”

“Remember when I nicked Dean’s car?” Eggsy waits for her nod, then continues: “I got sent down to Holbrook Station, and they told me it was going to be a six-month sentence. So I called the number on the back of the medal.”

“Hart got you out,” Michelle confirms, and Eggsy nods. It all makes sense: Hart’s voice in the flat, during that awful moment where she thought Dean would cut his throat. Threatening Dean enough for him to step back. Encouraging Eggsy to meet him at a tailor shop.   

“…You—you know Harry didn't kill Dad, Mum.”

"No," Michelle says. "But he did recruit you, right? I'm assuming he did the same with Lee."

“He did,” Eggsy says. “But Mum…you can’t, I mean…” He pauses. “I don’t want you to hate him.”

“Why not?” she replies snappishly. “This explains all the scrapes and bruises, you know. The constant traveling, too. Not to mention that nearly year-long  _job training camp_ you were at last year."

“Mum—“

"I haven't asked you about V-Day because I think we both have been through hell on that day," Michelle says. Sometimes, she can't even look at Daisy without remembering her screaming at the sight of her mother wielding a knife and trying to smash through the bathroom door. “But I didn't know where you were, and the last time I saw you was when you went out to go hunt down Dean. I didn't know if you were safe until you called me, and your friend Roxy somehow knew about the phones. Not to mention that incident in the pub.” She folds her arms. “It didn't seem quite right before, but seeing your  _boss_ just confirmed it for me.”

"I can't really tell you," Eggsy finally says. "It's in the rules, and I'd have to talk to—“

"Oh, I have a pretty good idea of what you're really doing." Michelle only hesitates a moment before adding, "I don't want you to go the same way as your dad, Eggsy," she says. "But I'm not telling you what to do, mind you. I shouldn't have made you come back while you were in the Marines training, and maybe, if you'd passed it all..."

"I couldn't leave you, Mum," Eggsy protests. "And honestly? I don't mind how things turned out in the end."

_Do you?_ "Now, are those pastries from that Italian bakery near your street?" Michelle then asks, and Eggsy opens the box. Inside are pastries with golden-brown crusts, some puffed up with sticky red filling, some rolled into logs with fluffy cream, some drizzled in chocolate and dusted with powdered sugar.

"That poor girl having to put up with Hart, though," Michelle mutters, and her son laughs a bit awkwardly. 

"Yeah," he says. "Poor girl."

* * *

 After Eggsy leaves, Michelle gets Daisy into her jammies and guides her into the loo, sliding over the yellow plastic step stool so she can look in the mirror. Daisy squirts a bit of bubblegum toothpaste onto the bristles as Michelle does the same, and together, they brush their teeth until the sand in the little hourglass—a souvenir from the dentist—runs down. They both spit into the sink—Daisy’s favorite part—and Michelle tells Daisy to choose a book from her little shelf.

She climbs into bed with Daisy, then opens the book to the title page.

“All right,” she says, feeling awkward. “ _Paddington_.”

Daisy only stares back at her.

Mechanically, Michelle begins to read, tracing her finger under the words. Daisy watches, silent and with her head cocked, and when Michelle gently tries to prompt Daisy into reading the last few words, Daisy shakes her head.

“Just these, love?” she asks, but Daisy shakes her head again, stubborn and defiant.  “ _Daisy_ ,” she says, frustrated. “Come on, I know you can do it. Please?”

Daisy keeps shaking her head, mouth tightly closed, and part of Michelle thinks that she shouldn’t bend, shouldn’t leave until Daisy reads for her, but the fight dies out of her when Daisy’s face begins to turn red, the sign of impending tears.

“Bollocks,” Michelle mutters. Daisy’s teacher’s comments ring in her ears. _Delayed development. Not enough exposure to books. Very quiet, won’t speak unless prompted._ “I’m sorry, Daisy, love. That’s all right.” She kisses Daisy on the forehead and tucks her in, making sure tuck in the stuffed pug Eggsy brought back from his trip to Tokyo a few weeks back. “I love you.”  

She switches off the light, padding towards her bedroom, but sleep is now a long ways. Eggsy had flown through books, babbling and happy, and Lee had—Lee had even given him one of those cardboard and plastic ones with the sounds. It had been different with Eggsy, so very different—warmth and laughter and smiles. She’d worn a cross around her neck and a ring on her finger, both taken off a few days after the funeral.

And _he’d_ came—kind and joking, the answer to her prayers, someone to lean on for a bit, a steadier figure for Eggsy. How could she have known?

She wonders—and hopes—Daisy is too young to later remember the life she once had.  

Her daughter's sudden whimpers can be heard from next door, and for a minute, Michelle doesn't move. 

_What if I'm part of her nightmares?_

Daisy lets out a plaintive wail, and Michelle forces herself out of bed. "Coming, love," she calls. "Be right there."

* * *

 It’s going to be in a month. One month from now.

* * *

“Michelle! Is that you?”

She startles, then relaxes when she meets the eyes of Jamal’s dad, coming out of the flat near Molly’s. They’d had a brief tea before Michelle’s shift, and Michelle had tried her best to avoid talking about “that gentleman from the other day.”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Michelle says, smiling, then gestures to her uniform, pressed slacks and a black button-down. "Just heading off to work now." 

"Don't see you around as much," he says, but not without accusation. "Eggsy mentions you a lot when he comes around. He's working at a tailor's, yeah?" 

"Yes," she says. Something like that. "And you, are you still at Tesco's?" 

"That, and I got promoted to manager, finally," he says, with a short grin. "Now I get to boss around people other than my son...who doesn't _always_ listen, of course." 

Michelle laughs. "Congratulations, though," she says. "You've wanting it for some time." 

"Oh, definitely. And you're working at a kid's store, right? That's what Charlotte mentioned, near Eggsy's workplace."

"Yeah, that's right." 

He grins, about to say more, but glances at his watch. “Damn. I got to catch the bus, but it was nice runnin’ into you! See you around?"

"Yes,” she says, waving, and watches him go.

She briefly wonders what would have happened if he'd approached her before Dean. He'd been nice, sure, but at the time, Michelle didn't exactly know what  _nice_ was. Dean smiled and called her his sweetheart and gave Eggsy money for ice cream, but he had been far from Lee. 

Sometimes, she hates herself for remembering those good times, if they'd meant anything to him. 

Because they meant the world to her, once upon a time. 

* * *

If she tries, she can remember what she’d liked about him: his easy confidence that was like a hand on her arm, his jokes that made her laugh and forget a little.

The problem is that the good bits were mixed in with the bad ones.

It’s too easy to muddle up things like this.

* * *

Eggsy comes in one day, waving at her across the room. He’s wearing another suit today, but his hair looks windblown, with his shoes slightly untied. “Hey, Mum! I know it's your lunch break, so I thought I'd take you out to eat."

"Thank you, love," she says, then glances at Irene beside her. "But Irene and I..." 

"Oh. I get it. Sorry." 

"No, no," Irene says, waving her hand. "That's all right, Michelle. Go spend time with your son; God knows I don't see enough of my kid these days."

"You sure?" 

"Definitely. There's always tomorrow. Go have fun."

"I'll bring you back a pastry," Michelle calls on the way out. 

They end up at the same restaurant as the one she and the girls went to. Eggsy orders a sandwich with a side of chips, and Michelle does the same. "How is Dais?" 

"School’s doing her some good," Michelle says. "She's a whip at maths, though the teacher told me I should be reading to her every night and try to get her to...recognize words and all." She feels another pang of guilt. Eggsy had grown up at Daisy's age with both his parents, and there was usually one of them around to attend to his needs. She'd refused Eggsy's offer of money—buying the house was enough—for her to retire comfortably. Michelle dislikes being still, waiting around like some invalid, but she's now wondering what would have happened if Dean hadn't swept her and Eggsy's life from underneath their feet. 

She wouldn't have another kid, of course, but if she had a Daisy with an actual, supporting husband, Daisy wouldn't have been proclaimed  _small for her age_ or  _not understanding some concepts_. Michelle knows Eggsy's part of the reason why Daisy isn't worse off, and feels like a rotten mother at times. 

_Maybe that's why you were affected so easily,_ she thinks.  _A good mum wouldn't have turned on her child like that._

"Mum? Mum, you all right?" 

"I'm fine, Eggsy." 

"You sure?" Eggsy leans forward, voice soft. "I...you get the same look as Harry does sometimes. When he's thinking about V-Day."

Michelle briefly wonders what Hart had done during that awful day, then resolves not to think about it. "It was a hard day for all of us, Eggs," she says. 

He hesitates. "I see a shrink, Mum. My work...provides her, and she's right good. Maybe I can make some arrangements and set up an appointment." When Michelle doesn't answer, he presses: "She helps, Mum. And she's...she's heard a lot of shit. Nothing you'll tell her will surprise her, and it'll be completely confidential." 

Michelle sighs. “I'll think about it.”

But they both know otherwise.

* * *

She thinks more about it the next day, during the monotonous chore of folding and putting away clothes kids and their equally-messy parents toss onto the tables. Irene chatters a bit about this bloke she's seeing, some accountant, then about the fact that her son's hinting about also seeing someone, but isn't telling his mum about. Michelle nods and makes small talk about Daisy and Eggsy and possibly accepting a promotion from her boss, but doesn't mention much else.  

Michelle starts noticing a bit more about people around her: the painful-looking scar on Irene's arm, the way some of her coworkers pluck at their wedding ring or clock out early with hard-set faces, and even the vaguely frightened look her son has when fireworks go as part of some rowdy teenagers celebrating a mate's birthday. 

Time moves on, but sometimes, Michelle thinks it moves too slowly.  

* * *

Eggsy drops by another day, bearing a cardboard box of books. “I was just thinking about Daisy and I thought…well, it might not be a good idea,” he admits, “because I’ll have to, uh, censor some things. But maybe she’d like to hear stories.”

Daisy watches them talk, head cocked to one side, fist in her mouth, and Michelle lifts her up to show her what’s in the box. “Look, Dais. Books.”

She gives them one, long look, but says nothing. Michelle’s just about to put her back down when Daisy’s little hand points to one with a turquoise cover, showing blue skies and a grassy hill and an old woman waving a cane at a stone fortress with legs.   

“Rox said she liked this as a kid,” Eggsy says, smiling, then lifts the book out. _Howl’s Moving Castle._ “We could always do _Harry Potter_ , but this one seems a bit, I dunno, light-hearted.”

“Sounds good,” Michelle says, then hoisting Daisy up on her hip, walks to the couch and sits. Eggsy plops down beside her, then opens to the first chapter, beginning to read, finger tracing under each word as he goes. Daisy seems to be listening, though if she understands, Michelle doesn’t exactly know.

In the middle of the chapter, Eggsy stops to get a drink, sighing when he sits back down, shoulders slumping. Michelle notices the dark bags underneath his eyes, the paleness of his face, and asks, “You all right, Eggsy? You seem a bit…tired.”

“Just some work stuff,” he says, then sighs again. “And...well, some people there are…oh, you know.”

“Snobs?” she volunteers, and he laughs like it’s been punched out.

“Yeah. Snobs.” Then, very quickly: “Roxy doesn’t give a sh—toss about where I came from and neither does her uncle or my…the main tech guy there. Harry doesn’t care, either.”

“He better not” is all she says, knowing exactly what Eggsy’s doing. Whatever he says, she’s not going to be on Hart’s side. Daisy picks up the book, holding it by the cover, and glad for the distraction, Michelle takes it from her and continues the rest of the story.

* * *

Sometimes, when she looks at her son, she tries to remember what that had been like, being as young as he is and full of possibilities. She and Lee had met early, but both had plans about their life. Lee, even back then, wanted to go into the Marines, and Michelle had been looking into scholarships and rereading her biology textbook and sitting in the library for hours, trying to puzzle out the medical terms she'd heard on the telly. 

Eggsy had been a little interruption, then the Marines, but they'd talked about it: a flat in a nicer part of town with enough room for Eggsy to run around in and eventually attend school in, putting aside some extra funds, looking into their friends and family members about watching Eggsy for when Michelle went back to school, building their lives slowly throughout the years.

They could be patient, yes, but they'd have it together.

* * *

She’s heard Eggsy read that passage to Daisy, about Sally Jackson staying with Percy’s stepfather. And no, her reason wasn't all noble as protecting her son from monsters.

In the end, too, she hadn't protected him.

* * *

On September twentieth, Michelle wakes up, very aware of the hole in the world. Today is work. She has to go. She’s been doing this for seventeen years, burying whatever grief bubbled up with duties or drink or hash. It will not defeat her today. 

Lee and Eggsy were both born in fall, something they all enjoyed. They'd go to the park some weekends and have a picnic among the autumn leaves, where Eggsy would happily jump into. There would be hot cacao in thermoses, everyone bundled up in scarves and hats and jackets, and at the end of the meal, they'd all stroll around until it started to get dark. She wonders if Eggsy remembers these times as vividly as she does, if he remembers his father lifting him up on his shoulders, herself putting leaves in Lee's and Eggsy's hair, himself running around with the boundless energy of kids his age. 

She manages to get through the day, focusing on the picnic she and Eggsy had planned. After picking up Daisy from school, she bundles them both into the warm car and drives down to the address Eggsy gave her for Stanhope Mews. His house is the very last one at the end of the street, and while getting out of the car, Michelle wonders why. Knowing her son, she’d expect something with a gaudy touch, like neon roses climbing their way up the house or a spray of street art on the steps, not this: something simple, almost plain. 

Leaving the basket in the car, Michelle walks to the door, Daisy in tow, and rings the doorbell.   

"Oh." Hart blinks at her, standing in the threshold. He’s not in the whole suit and tie getup; instead, he’s wearing a tan cardigan over a white shirt with two buttons popped open at the collar. His hair is softer, looking like wind had been at it, and his glasses are slightly crooked. “Eggsy will be down in a minute. Come in.”

Michelle does, slowly beginning to understand. "You live together? In the same house?" 

"Well, yes."

"Oh, lord," Michelle groans, realizing. "You don't have a girl, do you? You have  _my son."_

Hart ducks his head. "I..." 

"Eggsy has had questionable relationships before, but this...takes the cake." If it weren't for Daisy holding onto her hand, Michelle would bury her face in her hands. "How long have you been seeing each other? Eggsy's never moved in with  _anyone_ in his life, and he's suddenly...he never told..." 

"Two months after...V-Day," Hart says. 

"And how long has he been living here?"

Hart sighs, next words coming out slowly: "Ever since V-Day." 

Michelle's jaw drops. "So...you..." She's trying to work out the timeline in her head. "So, he was living with you  _before_ you two got together?" 

"Well, you see, he thought I was dead, and I left him the house, then it was discovered that I in fact  _wasn't_ dead. It's...rather complicated. But—”

"But _nothing_. You're his boss _,_ yeah?"

“I assure you, Ms. Unwin, I will never take advantage—” Hart pauses, falters. “You must understand that Kingsman has been renovating its power structure. My position used to be...the utmost authority, if you will, but now, it's more of a democratic process. If any major changes to the organization were made, all the...employees would convene for a meeting and vote on it."

"So, if you decided to fire him—"

"I wouldn't, and I couldn't. He’s one of our best—“

“Tailors?” Michelle finishes, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes.” Hart straightens up. “And while our organization still has the old boys’ club feel to it, Eggsy is favored by much of the staff and has made friends on the job. When Eggsy and I decided to...pursue a relationship, my entire week was full of well-placed threats if I ever were to hurt him. You’d be standing in a line.”

“Good.” Michelle juts her chin out. “Because the last thing Eggsy needs is more hurting.”

They stand across from each other, and Michelle looks at him, really looks at him since that horrible day. He’s older, greyer in the temples, with a starburst scar across the left side of his forehead. Dark circles are underneath his eyes, eyes with crow’s feet at the edges, and that tan, ratty cardigan bunches around his hips. What Eggsy sees in him—she doesn’t know.

His voice is quiet. “Lee—“

“Don’t,” she warns. “You don’t get to talk about him to me. Do you know what’s like to lose someone you love?” Her fingers grip the ring finger on her left hand, twisting. Lee had proposed at her birthday dinner, holding out the ring that’s buried in her sock drawer. _It’s really not much,_ he’d said apologetically, _but one day, I’ll buy you something that all those general’s wives wear._ “Come back to me when that happens, and we can talk.”


	2. during

 

 

* * *

 

They all had a nice picnic, just the three of them, but when Eggsy comes home, his mind churns with one question: Does his mum know about him and Harry? She could have just thought Harry was visiting, but somehow, he doubts that, with all the hints she'd dropped about  _his roommate_ and  _you know, I thought you were living with Roxy or someone else, Eggs._ His mum hadn't confronted him head-on and Eggsy hadn't flat-out denied it, so they're still in that odd  _I think you know about it, but I'm not going to say anything just in case_ phase.

“Harry!” Eggsy calls. He’s gotten into the habit of announcing his presence, since Harry doesn't like surprises much. “I’m home!” He tosses his keys onto the kitchen table, then pets a wagging JB. Looking around, it doesn’t look like Harry’s been down here recently, so Eggsy goes upstairs, slipping into Harry’s office with a brief, obligatory tap on the inside of the open door.  

“Hello, darling,” Harry says, looking up from his computer. “How are you? Your mother?” He sounds a bit cautious in the last word.  

“Good,” Eggsy says, then, “Harry, I was wondering, does Mum know…?”

“That we’ve been cohabiting?” Harry finishes, a bit dryly. “Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Are you…?”

“No, no,” Eggsy says quickly, then pauses to give Harry a brief kiss, trying to communicate _No, never ashamed of you, never._  And yeah, he's been trying to actually bring it up to his mum, but she'd been so determined to dislike Harry that it never felt like the right time. The excuse seems thin at best and dodgy at worst, and he says, a bit quickly, “It’s just…I’ve never really told Mum if I was ever seeing anyone.” In the past, he’d mention it if asked straight out, but never offered to bring any of them around to the flat. By that time, he knew better. “You’re my first.” Maybe not first in all things, Eggsy admits, but Harry’s the one.

With that, Harry briefly looks startled, and Eggsy raises his chin defiantly. If that's going to be a problem—

“Oh, Eggsy,” Harry breathes, then cranes his head upwards so Eggsy can meet him halfway, bending down, bracing his hand against Harry's shoulder. The kiss is slow and sweet, deepening as Harry pulls him closer, hand cupping the back of his head, and as Eggsy sighs into his mouth. His other hand comes down, fingers closing around the arm of Harry's chair. 

Pulling away for air, Eggsy notices that the computer screen is black, likely because Harry had brought his Arthur work home, which meant in terms of field agents knowing about them: classified. “Been keeping the ship from sinking?”

“With Merlin as my loyal first mate,” Harry replies, but Eggsy knows a _fuck the ship_ tone when he hears it. He can’t blame Harry, really, becoming the one in control of the machine instead of being one of the cogs. And the paperwork? Eggsy doesn’t even like filling out his mission reports, so he can only imagine what Harry’s going through.

“Need a break?” Eggsy suggests, then slides a slow hand up Harry’s shoulder towards the back of his neck. His fingers graze between the line of hair and bare skin, and Harry’s eyes close as Eggsy rubs soothing circles into the tense-filled knots. “I bet you haven’t even eaten since I left.”

“I have,” Harry corrects.

“Biscuits don’t count.”

“They are food, are they not?”

“They are, but they’re not a proper meal.” Eggsy continues rubbing the back of Harry’s neck. “Come downstairs with me and we can figure something out.”

Harry doesn’t respond, eyes still closed.

“Harry?” Eggsy asks, bemused. “What are you thinking about?”

Something passes through Harry’s face in that moment, but then, he shakes his head and smiles, looking up at Eggsy from his chair. “I’m not thinking about food just now,” he says dryly.  

“What are you thinking about, then?” Eggsy counters playfully, with a blank, uncomprehending look he’d used on a few of his teachers in secondary.

“You’re intelligent,” Harry says, “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

Eggsy keeps his hand massaging the back of Harry’s neck. “Give me a hint.”

“What kind of spy would I be if I gave you all the answers?” Harry asks, eyes still closed.

“Hm, you're right,” Eggsy muses. They can keep playing this game, but it's clear that both of them are impatient for it to end.  “I'm guessing…it involves the bedroom?”

Harry’s smile is both coy and eager. “Are you certain?”

“I know I am,” Eggsy retorts, and grinning, pulls him out of the office.

* * *

“ _Galahad_.”

Eggsy snaps back to attention, quickly removing his hand from his cheek. "What?"

Merlin only raises his eyebrows at him. “Do you need a few minutes to get your bearings?”

“No, sir,” Eggsy quickly says. “Paying attention, sir.”

The quartermaster only gives him another long, searching look before gesturing to their files. “You two are assigned a joint mission.”

“A retrieval,” Roxy says, gesturing at her copy of the file Eggsy hasn’t been looking at for the past ten minutes. “Some madman with a biochemical and electrical engineering background might want to partake in some revenge.”

“Thank you, Lancelot,” Merlin says, then swipes at his tablet. A building flashes on the overhead screen above the fireplace. “Venice. The International Conference of Biochemistry and Life Science. Our mark, Richard Baron, who has a long and illustrious history attending this meeting, has also had a long and illustrious history of working for V-Corp.”

“Valentine,” Eggsy says.

“Yes. Since V-Day, he’s been ostracized from the scientific community. His wife also left him, gaining custody of their two children. His friends also have died during V-Day or have similarly abandoned him. His grants and funding left with his job as well.”

“He’s lost absolutely everything,” Roxy summarizes.

“And somehow hasn’t gone to prison,” Eggsy mutters bitterly. The ones who hadn’t gotten the chips in their heads either perished during V-Day or manage to worm themselves out of trouble. Hell, the justice system took months to begin grinding its wheels properly, even after Parliament decided a full pardon would extend to everyone on V-Day, and by then, most people wise enough to Valentine’s scheme had covered their tracks.

“A man like this is dangerous.” Merlin then clicks to the next slide. “We believe Baron will try something at the conference: redeem himself, give a speech, or something more...audacious.”

“But he lost his job, right?” Eggsy asks. “Why would he still be invited?”

“There’s not much that the International Conference can do, since no criminal charges were able to stick,” Merlin says. “And since Baron’s ex-wife was also invited, she also could be in danger. You will be undercover as such: Dr. Marie Hardy and her husband, Mr. Daniel Hardy. Work together, investigate, and come to me before the final date so we can work out the kinks before sending you out. Got it?”

They both nod.

“Very well. Dismissed. And Galahad, you may need another seminar on controlling your facial expressions.”

As soon as they get out the door, Roxy nudges him. “You seem like you’re in a good mood today. That's all I want to know, though, so please spare me the details.”

"It's not—" Eggsy immediately catches himself because yeah, it _is_ what she's thinking of.

"Mm-hm. You know, Eggsy, sometimes I have trouble believing that you're a spy sometimes."  

“I’m a brilliant spy,” Eggsy protests.

Roxy smirks, then softens to a smile. “You’re just…so happy with him. It’s sweet.”

“Of course,” Eggsy says, trying not to sound smug but obviously failing, judging by Roxy’s brief eye roll. “Oh, and I forgot to tell you—my mum knows.”

“Finally!” Roxy breathes. “Well, how did she react?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I didn’t know that she knew until I got home and confirmed it with Harry. But she didn’t start, I don’t know, giving me the talk or anything.”

“So you got off easy.” Roxy says, with a shrug. “My mum would have been on it.”

“They’re not trying to marry you off, are they?”

“Not all posh people are out of _Pride and Prejudice_ , Eggsy. And no, not yet, but my mum’s worried that I’m lonely or not taking advantage of being young or being too picky. And guess what? Dad’s getting into it, too. That man basically ignores me my whole life until I can be useful at social functions until…” She pauses, a bit abashed. “Well, you know.”

“He’s less of a twat.” Eggsy concludes. V-Day has changed people—sometimes completely, sometimes not. Just look at Dean, reportedly trying to peddle contraband goods in prison. “That’s good news.”

“Yeah. Yeah. It’s just weird. I wish he had, I don’t know, cared sooner, but there you go.” Roxy sighs, then glances at Eggsy. “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere soon?”

“Oh, yeah,” Eggsy says, glancing at his watch. “Gotta do some field training with Harry in half an hour.”

“Right, _field training_ ,” Roxy accuses. “You just use that time to flirt with Harry, don’t you?”  

Eggsy winks, a bit more of swagger in his step. “Multi-tasking, Rox. I’m an expert.”

* * *

“That woman over there to your right, ten meters away.”

Eggsy peers in the direction, nodding. He loves this game, trying to guess everything he can about someone in a span of thirty seconds. Harry gives him that much time to observe, then asks him what he’s observed and rewards the right answers with something later—usually involving the bedroom. _So clever, so observant, you’re—_

He snaps himself out of it just in time to review what he’s seen just as Harry taps his watch. “And…time. Tell me what you think.”

“Around late fifties, early sixties. Near-sighted—squinted at one of the signs over there, even with her glasses. Doesn’t sleep very much—her cup says it’s got a few espresso shots and is also made with soy milk, so lactose intolerant or trying to be healthy. Wealthy—the watch definitely said that. Busy or in a hurry—walking pretty fast, nearly bumping into some people down the way. Polite, though—apologized to that woman she banged into. Exercises or needs to get places quick—track sneakers. Married—wearing a ring,” Eggsy pauses, thinking. “And…a nurse of some kind—the blue scrubs.”

“Well done, but my guess would be physician,” Harry corrects. “As you said, she’s older, rich, and walks with confidence.”

Eggsy shrugs. “They all practice medicine, don’t they?”

“There are distinctions,” Harry says. “For example, my father had grand plans of sending me to medical school to become a surgeon after uni.”

Harry speaks so little about his past that any tidbit of new information make Eggsy perk up. “Yeah? Should I be calling you _Doctor Hart_ now?”

“Oh, no,” Harry says. “I didn’t go. I went into the army instead.” Then softer, “That’s where I met your father.”

Eggsy pauses, waiting for Harry to continue, but when Harry doesn’t, Eggsy probes, “Tell me.”

“We didn’t train together, but our units converged in one day. I had flown up the ranks, despite my young age—though I will admit that my family name had a factor in it—so I was a bit of an overconfident arse. Lee was...a bit more reserved, but anyone could tell he was made to wear the uniform. He loved his country with all his heart and was proud to serve it, and also snuck away during what little free time we had to call your mother and you.” Harry’s gaze is now far away. “He had pictures, too, tucked into his uniform. A wedding photo, a family portrait, you and your mother at a park.”

Eggsy’s quiet for a minute, trying to picture it: a younger, glasses-less Harry in a Marines uniform sitting beside his dad in a mess hall. His father, pensive, looking through the photos wrapped in protective plastic. And he remembers a little of those phone calls—his mum smiling like it was Christmas, handing him the phone, telling him to say hello to his dad.

Harry now looks down at his feet. “Shortly after, I was recruited for Kingsman, and I didn’t see him for many years. But when Lancelot died, I looked him up and…you know the rest.”  

Yeah, he did.

They’re both silent for a moment, then Harry points out an older man with a camera around his neck. “Next one. Thirty seconds, starting…now.”

* * *

Later that night, with Harry’s arm wrapped around his waist, Eggsy thinks. His father had been such a vague memory for most of his life, most of what he knew coming from his mum’s stories, and today, Harry had told him a bit more. Some days, it’s strange, knowing that someone else remembers his dad more than he does. His mum gave him snippets and stories, breadcrumbs for Eggsy to scoop up, that became less and less frequent when Dean arrived in their lives.

One thing, though, that Eggsy remembers is his mum and Dean fighting up until the marriage, which never got so much as a cake, just a signed piece of paper that guaranteed, according to his mum, security and hope that Dean wouldn’t run off and leave them behind, and according to Dean, their assets being tied up. Even at ten years old, Eggsy could read between the lines just fine there: if Dean somehow got into trouble, they’d go down, too.

Eggsy spent the months leading up to that hoping that Dean would be scared off and make a run for it, but he never did, even when his mum staunchly refused to change her last name. He hadn’t seen his mum dig in her heels for that long, and her quiet, resolute _I’m not changing to Baker, Dean_ stuck. He’d never asked her about it, only happy to not have himself tied to Dean in any way, and now, is only happier for that fact.

His dad lurks somewhere in his veins and his DNA and his name. He’s an Unwin, even if he doesn’t remember so much of the Unwin stuff.

 _Love you, Eggs,_ his dad always said during his phone calls, voice light and playful. _Love you, too, Michelle._

 _Your dad will come home,_ his mum replied, gesturing to the snow globes perched on the windowsills and counter tops. _Dads always do._

* * *

Eggsy’s just on his way to the library when Bors accosts him, giving him the fakest smile since Chester King. “Galahad. I hear you and Lancelot are the Venice mission?”

Rumor has it that Bors was vying for the Arthur position and had been absolutely furious when it got swept up and given to Harry instead—and by association and general prejudice, dislikes Eggsy, too. Now that he’s spent a good amount of time with Bors, Eggsy can only kiss the ground, praising whoever’s out there for not giving him Bors as a boss. He's one of the knights that go out of their way to be arseholes, and personally, Eggsy prefers the ones who have the decency to abide by the age-old rule of  _if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all_ to him. 

“That’s right,” Eggsy says coolly. “Weather’s supposed to be nice this time of year.”

“Venice, Ireland, South America, Cancun, Spain, the Maldives…your missions have been very scenic.” Bors muses. “Our king does love to expand your horizons, doesn’t he?”

And somehow, Bors forgets all the other not-so-glamorous ones—Argentina, the Sahara, Yemen, Texas, Somalia, Oymyakon. Eggsy bristles, biting back a _Maybe if you weren’t such an arse, you wouldn’t keep getting sent to deserts_ in favor of a more gentlemanly “The life of a Kingsman is always exciting.”

Bors’s smile is very, very thin. “Helps if Arthur has a hand in it.”

Well, so much for diplomacy.

“You do realize Merlin also has a role in selecting missions?” Eggsy asks, injecting the right amount of _oh, you don’t know?_ into his tone. “I ain’t shagging him. He wouldn’t stand for it.” Bors turns a lovely shade of puce, but Eggsy plows on: “’Sides, knights are paired to their specialties. You’re apparently good at sitting on your arse for long amounts of time. Not my fault that the callouses are getting to you.”

Bors glares. “And _you_ …thievery.”

Eggsy looks him in the eye. “Yeah, I’m pretty good at that. Lucky for us.”

All of Kingsman knows about the switched glasses involved in the untimely demise of Chester King, and it’s enough to actually make Bors shut up.

But not for long.

“But _I_ also get the demolitions. Wonder why Arthur hasn’t been assigning you those?” Bors’s tone turns mock concerning. “Even _Lancelot’s_ gotten one.”

Eggsy opens his mouth just to ask just what the fuck he’s banging on about when Roxy—thank whoever’s out there again—comes around the corner, obviously looking for Eggsy. Her smile turns politely thin when she sees Bors. “Ah. Bors, Galahad.”

“Lancelot,” Bors says, perfectly civil. Two-faced wanker. “Looking for anyone?”

“Yes. Galahad. We need to discuss our mission.” Roxy takes his arm, whisking him away.

“What a wanker,” Eggsy mutters under his breath.

Roxy hums, rolling her eyes as soon as they step into the library. “I know, Galahad. I know. Just ignore that arsehole."

* * *

Fuck Bors, though—but not really—because Eggsy’s still thinking about it when he stops by his mum’s to drop off another kid’s picture book that Percival gave him when he heard Daisy was learning how to read—something about two penguins. His mum talks a little about her job, about Irene in talks for a promotion, about Daisy completing a math assignment faster than anyone in the class, about how Ryan asked about him through his mum. 

What’s Bors trying to say? That Eggsy can’t be trusted with delicate jobs? That he’s not smart enough? Not focused? Fuck, he shouldn’t even entertain that bullshit, but it's too late. 

“What’s wrong, love?” his mum asks, and Eggsy immediately shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says, a reflex.

She frowns. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It’s just work,” he replies, with a casual shrug. “Just…interpersonal stuff.”

“Someone’s giving you trouble again?” she asks. 

“Somewhat. But it’s not a big deal,” he quickly says. "Really, it's not."

“What’s he saying?”

 _That my boss, who you hate and now know is my boyfriend, is giving me easy jobs because we’re fucking and also not some others for some reason. Typical stuff._ “Oh, just…things. Elitist shit. Nothing I can handle.” Eggsy gives her smile, immediately moving on to asking her more questions about Daisy.  

Later, he opens the group chat with Ryan and Jamal, types something, and erases it. What can he even say to them? Their lives are so far apart now that no one has said anything in the chat for about two weeks. With Ryan working more shifts at Garfunkel’s and Jamal pursuing firefighting school and Eggsy being a spy, everything’s been so busy. And they still don’t know—not really—who Harry exactly is. They’ve seen pictures and all, but they haven’t actually met—and adding Harry to the schedule conflicts is a mess on its own. As Arthur, he barely gets out anyway, and he most definitely does not have time to sit in a pub for a few hours without his tablet.

Instead, he texts Roxy and immediately gets a _Bors just has his head up his arse._

 _There’s something more_ , he writes back. _Idk._

_He’s just petty. Come on. You know Merlin and Harry trust you. And there’s no way Harry thinks you’re stupid. Otherwise, he’d be with Bors._

_Haha._ He sends that, then begins, _He has a point. Why haven’t I gotten—_

“Hello, Eggsy.”

“Hey,” he says, quickly turning off his phone, leaving the message unsent. “What do you feel like tonight?”

“Thai,” Harry replies. “Perfect after a long, bloody day of nothing but papers and meetings.” He then smiles, bending down to kiss Eggsy. “Well, with a bright spot.” Next, Harry straightens up and pulls out his tablet. “Why don’t you order our usual, and I’ll go check what exactly Bors is moaning about. He just got back from Sicily and has nothing but complaints and, apparently, food poisoning from the dinner the mark hosted." 

“Bors?” Eggsy asks, then hedges, “Yeah, ran into him today.”

“And on a scale from one to ten, how unpleasant was he?”

“Oh, a ten. But he did say something…I don’t know.”

Harry looks at him. He’s got his Arthur face on, the steely, _I will punish you_ one. “What did he say to you?”

“Just…oh, complaining that I get the good missions because of…well, us, and then pointed out that I haven’t done demolitions.” 

Harry’s eyes become impenetrable. “Well, that was rude. I can reprimand him if you like.”

“Nah, it’ll make it worse.” Eggsy shrugs. “’Sides, he, well, has a point. I haven’t done a demolitions mission.”

Harry pauses. “Ah. Yes.”

“I mean, I should. Just so it’s there. Experience and all.” Eggsy waves his hand, but stops when he sees Harry’s expression. “Um…is there something you want to tell me about?”

“No,” Harry says, but then does a strange thing: bends down and kisses Eggsy again, this time a bit more desperate, like the ones after a particularly difficult mission, a _thank god you’re still alive_ kiss. His hand not holding the tablet caresses his cheek, thumb stroking along his jawline. His touch is gentle, so gentle as if Eggsy is made out of glass, and when he pulls away, he’s looking at Eggsy like he’s seeing a ghost. “No, Eggsy,” he repeats.

“Right,” Eggsy mutters to himself, just as Harry walks away. “Yeah.”

* * *

Merlin says the next day, looking at Eggsy curiously, “Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses, so Kingsman tries to pair you with the right missions.”

"I know," Eggsy says, "but isn't it weird to you that I didn't get a demolitions yet?”

Merlin pushes his chair away from his desk, swirling around so he can face him. His expression is serious. “Eggsy. Your title of Galahad is well-earned. You were one of our most promising candidates, considering your background, and no—” Merlin raises his hand, and Eggsy shuts up, remembering the _take that chip off your shoulder_ moment. “Listen to me. When knights pick their candidates, it’s usually their relatives or close family friends, and from the moment they see potential, they begin training them in languages, martial arts, survival skills, sharpshooting, you name it. Harry has always been...unconventional.”

Eggsy slowly nods. Him and his dad—definitely a break with Kingsman mold there.  

“You didn’t have that preparation, and you still became Galahad. You’re one of our best sharpshooters and information gatherers,” an obviously dressed-up term for _thief,_ “and you and Roxy were essential in stopping Valentine. So, in short, I do think you’re capable.”

“Yeah?” Eggsy says. “I hear a _but_ in there, though.”

“ _But,”_ Merlin stresses, “this is rather…” He then seems to hesitate for a moment, and Eggsy, for once, doesn’t push. To see _Merlin_ unsure about something is like seeing Dean being nice—unsettling, waiting for something below the surface. “You know, Eggsy, there’s never been protocol for an Arthur and knight relationship.”

“’Cause everyone back then was a bloke and misogyny and homophobia and all that?” Eggsy asks, attempting to lighten the mood.  

“Well. Yes.” Merlin looks at him. “But I’m sure you’re aware of the power imbalances, the implications of such a relationship.”

Eggsy narrows his eyes. “You ain’t gonna pull a _and this is why you should end things with him,_ are you?”

“No,” Merlin says, “it’s obvious that you care for him very much.” He pauses. “As he does for you.”

“But what does…” Eggsy stops, slowly putting it all together in his head. He can’t believe he was that stupid to see it right in front of his face this whole time. “It’s him, innit it? The one not giving me those missions.”

Merlin looks at him, clearly deciding whether to speak or not, but finally says, “Yes.”

“Well, if he’s afraid of me getting hurt, he shouldn’t have recruited me.” Eggsy folds his arms. “He’s sent me into danger before. Practically his job, really. What makes this so different?”

As soon as he asks, everything begins to click into place. Harry’s subdued nature beginning with…the day Mum and Daisy came to the house. His dad’s birthday.

Demolitions. Explosives. And he’s an Unwin, isn’t he?

“Oh,” he says softly. “I see.” Then, “So, send me on a mission after this.” Because he _can_ do it. He’s had the training and was near the top of the class (Roxy was first, of course), so he can show Harry that he doesn’t need to worry. A quick and easy run, something that can be tidied up, an unspoken _no big deal_ at the end of the day.

Merlin already looks as if he knows what Eggsy wants, but still asks, “What sort of mission are you thinking of?”

“One with a bomb, grenade, something.”

“I can’t do that,” Merlin immediately replies, but not unkindly. “All missions have to be signed off by Arthur.”

“Then _obscure_ it or something,” Eggsy snaps, almost pleading. “You’re the tech genius! Just get it past him, send him to a meeting during the mission, and—”

Merlin shakes his head. “I can’t do that, either, Eggsy.”

“But—”

“You’re not going to subject yourself to a dangerous scenario just because Harry needs therapy, and in the end, Harry is still my superior,” Merlin interrupts, then sighs, shaking his head. “I can talk to him. That’s all I can do. But until then, Galahad, no missions of that nature. Dismissed.”

* * *

“We should bug Baron’s ex,” Eggsy says, projecting an image of her from his tablet onto one of the screens hanging in the library. “Marjorie Baron—Gray, now. Chemical engineer, used to be a civil engineer, but switched a few years back. She and Baron apparently met at the Venice conference a while back.” In the picture, she’s smiling, face turned to the right, dark hair curled around her shoulders, wedding ring glittering on her finger. “She moved out after the divorce to their vacation home in Italy with the kids, hasn’t kept in contact with Baron ever since.” Eggsy brings out some emails between them, things he had trouble reading. _Did you think I would have loved you after this?_ “The whole thing was tough on her. She felt betrayed and scared and angry, and Baron tried to stop the divorce as much as he could.”

“So, this confirms that she’s in danger,” Roxy says. “He wants her back, and she’ll be at the conference. From my research, he...did seem to care for her.” She pauses. “I don’t think Baron will kill her, but…”

“Yeah, you never know,” Eggsy finishes, with a scowl. He remembers going through blog entries and photos, her always smiling at Baron and him with her. They seemed like a pretty average happy couple—but things change.   

“So, it looks like the workplace our target used to work out has had some shortages,” Roxy continues, taking her tablet, and Eggsy watches a few locations pop up on the screen. “Different parts unaccounted for, though...hard to find after V-Day.”

“And these parts have something to do with...with high energy and that technological shit,” Eggsy says. “Weapons, yeah? Doesn’t surprise me that Valentine had a few laying around.”

“And it looks like our target just...made out with some after V-Day, before he was found out.” Roxy shakes her head. “I’m not sure how he escaped the chip, but it is possible he could have neutralized it.”

“Would have been helpful to know that,” Eggsy mutters.

“I think I know how.” Roxy brings up some of the parts missing from Valentine’s lab. “I went down to the tech department. They’re for an EMP bomb.”

This is the loo snorkels all over again. “EMP?”

“Electro-magnetic pulse,” Roxy explains. “It’s focused and well, simply put, can fry anything electronic in range: phones, computers, security systems, certain cars, planes, kitchen appliances…harmless to humans, unless you have a pacemaker or are hooked to a machine in the hospital, but still has disastrous consequences. These things can shut down _cities_ , and if our target’s EMP bomb has a large range…”

“How do you stop it?”

“One method: farraday cages.” Roxy pulls up a few diagrams, and Eggsy raises his eyes skeptically.

“So, what, we’re going to wrap everything electronic in aluminum foil?”

“We do have to think about our glasses, our comms, a few of our other tools.”

“Like our signet rings,” Eggsy says, then sighs, rubbing his left pinkie finger. “Fuck, that’s not good.”

“No,” Roxy says. “We should report this to Merlin. See if he has something that can survive an EMP blast if it comes down to it.”

Eggsy pauses. “The bomb...you said it’s mostly harmless to people, yeah?”

Roxy nods. “We shouldn’t be in any danger if it comes down to it. The problem, of course, will be what happens if our comms go down, so we have to study how to disarm the bomb just in case—not to mention apprehending Baron and getting everyone else to safety.”

Eggsy doesn’t answer. He’s still staring at the farraday cages Roxy has up, processing everything. Keep an eye on Marjorie, take out Baron, find the device—yeah, he’s got all that—but the bomb factor wedges itself in whatever plans are beginning to take form in his head because...what if? What if Harry pulled the plug on him?

“Eggsy? Are you all right?”

Eggsy sighs, admitting defeat. “I’m fine, Rox. It’s...it’s just…”

Luckily for him, Roxy gently attempts to lead the discussion: “Since you came back from meeting with Merlin, you seemed off. Did he...is there anything bad news?”

“Yeah.” Eggsy shifts in his chair. “Can I ask you something?”

Instead of replying with a coy _you just did,_ Roxy nods.

“How do you…get over something? Like, a fear?”

“Well,” Roxy says, “I’d imagine the worst thing that can happen, and either it paralyzed me into never facing my fear or told me after it was all over that I was being silly.” She shrugs. “And the worst thing _did_ happen to me: I fell thousands of feet towards the earth. I nearly died. And…well, once it was over, I felt better. You couldn’t make me do it again, most likely, but scaling a building...it’s not so bad, compared to that.” She shrugs. “And I trust Merlin—Kingsman—to keep me safe.”

 _And I didn’t_ , Eggsy thinks, remembering the dog test. Roxy had knows about his failure, of course.

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

 _I dunno, trust people._ “Just…be so sure that whoever’s at the top has your best interest.”

“I was in the army, so it’s ingrained into you early on.” Roxy shrugs, and Eggsy remembers she’s posh, able to say her family name to get into clubs or flag down the fuzz without any trouble. “And…well, working with Merlin, I trust him. And I was able to trust Harry in the beginning because, well, you did, and you seem to be a good judge of character.” She looks at him, sensing his continued uneasiness. “Look,” Roxy continues, “when I first saw Harry, it was after the train tracks. I couldn’t really form an opinion about him just then. But…”

“But what?”

“When we were on the shuttle back to the shop, you fell asleep on his shoulder.”

“And what, did he put his arm around me or something?”

“No,” Roxy says, with a little smirk. “But I _do_ have eyes, you know.”

“Are you saying you as a cadet could tell what a super-trained spy was thinking?”

Roxy smirks. “When it comes to Harry looking at you, yes. Yes, I do.” Her voice softens. “He loves you, you know. He’d do anything for you.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy replies. “I guess. But…” Then, he stops. He can’t tell Roxy _not_ to warn Merlin about the EMP bomb, not without a reasonable explanation, but even then, this whole thing is between him and Harry. Roxy and Merlin are the souls of discretion, but Kingsman doesn’t just run on independent donations and hidden hoards; they also run on gossip, and no one’s got a right to pick apart him and Harry and stir up anything about his dad. Whatever is going to happen, he’s going to settle it with just Harry.

“Let’s get back to the mission,” he continues, then pulls up a map of the convention center. “Now, there are a few places where you can hide this thing—”

* * *

It’s strange, having a man Eggsy’s never really known standing in his way like this. He knows so little about his father that it’s almost like he never had one. But sometimes, he’d catch a scent of something, a string of a song, or a sliver of a voice, trying to store all these pieces of his father somewhere in his head. His mum still rarely talked about his father, and Eggsy learned from a young age not to push her, then later figured out that Dean preferred to pretend that Lee never existed.  

There’s recordings on the Kingsman archives, but Eggsy has just watched three of them. Only a year ago, he would have been hungry for a glance of his father, except now, it’s different. Maybe he should, just to get away from the pedestal Harry wrought out of sacrifice and guilt.

Now, Eggsy realizes the massive gulf in between them, and it’s not just the factors of age and class and positions within Kingsman. Harry still–over a good decade later–feels  _guilty_. Harry’s likely used to death, but when Eggsy had pinged his radar again, Harry saw him as a young man with potential—a potential that could have been reached if Harry hadn’t recruited his father. A potential that could have been reached if the Unwins called the number sooner. A potential that’s based on all these  _what-if_ s that don’t help Harry move on in the least.

After he and Roxy dutifully report all they found to Merlin and Harry, Eggsy hangs back when Roxy walks out, promising her they’d go over their covers and plans tomorrow, then waits until Merlin finally exits. The quartermaster gives him a long, searching look, then nods towards the room.

Eggsy nods back, then steps in, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Harry looks up from where he’s consulting the file Roxy had slid over when the meeting began. “Eggsy. Is there something you need?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy says, taking the plunge. “I want to know if you’re going to pull me off of this one.”

Thanks to his training, Harry’s face gives nothing away. “What do you mean?”

“I know you haven’t been giving me missions related to various forms of explosives.”

“I’m not…” Harry closes his eyes, looking as if he’s on the verge of rubbing his forehead. “Please, Eggsy. Not now.”

“Oh, no,” Eggsy replies, stepping closer, voice low. “Just because you’re Arthur doesn’t mean that I’m always going to follow your orders.” He tenses when Harry looks up, meeting his gaze across the table, but doesn’t back down. “I may have been arse over tits about you back then, but even if you had been there, I wouldn’t have shot my dog, and that answer doesn’t change now.” There are some things he can’t renounce, can’t change, can’t do even for Harry.  

“Then if you can’t take orders, then you do realize that this is grounds for suspension,” Harry says. He’s no longer Harry; he’s Arthur, cool and impersonal, hands folded on top of the oak desk, stacks of papers and files like a wall between them.

 _What the fuck_. This has all gone to shit pretty quickly, escalating into something Eggsy realizes he can’t control. “You can’t do that to me,” Eggsy weakly protests, knowing full well that if Harry got it into his head, he could do exactly just that.  

“It’s protocol.” Harry’s gaze is unflinching, but there’s a tenseness to him, to both of them, like magnets trying to push away from each other. “If an agent does not listen to his handler or his other superiors and subsequently almost gets himself or others killed, then that agent is benched. That is the point of the dog test—”

“That’s bullshit!” Eggsy snaps. “I’m a _good_ agent, Harry, and I didn’t have to shoot a fucking innocent dog in the face to do it!”

“No one’s saying otherwise,” Harry says, clearly trying placate him, but it’s far beyond that now. “It’s a matter of trust, Eggsy, on both sides.”

“But you don’t trust _me_. I’ve passed my tests. I know what to do! How am I supposed to deal with this kind of situation if you keep shielding me? I’m not seven anymore!”

Harry just barely reacts, except for a brief widening, then narrowing of his eyes. “I’m aware that you’re not a child. But I—”

“You just have to deal with it!” Eggsy snaps. “Eighteen years are gone, Harry! You can’t go back!”

As soon as the words escape, he knows that it’s one of the most unforgivable things he could have said.

“Harry…” he begins, but Harry shakes his head, face turning away from his.

“I think it’s best that you leave, Eggsy,” Harry says, “before any of us say something else we might regret.”

Something about that makes Eggsy’s temper flare, the oh-so-calm _I’m not going to deal with this_ tone. He remembers reading _Howl’s Moving Castle_ to Daisy, with Sophie accusing, chin pointed up at Howl: _“You don’t like anything unpleasant, do you? You’re a slitherer-outer, that’s what you are!”_ And that’s what Harry is—dodging his problems, not dealing with any of them, and making Eggsy run after him to clean up his messes.

“Of course that’s your response,” he says, meaning to sound calm, but instead, it comes out harshly. “Of fucking _course_!” Pivoting on his heel, Eggsy exits, not bothering to push back his chair or refrain from slamming the door.

With the slam, there’s a starburst of panic in his chest. _No, you can’t, can’t walk away, remember what you promised, remember what you told yourself when you and Harry first moved in together: never go away angry._

But he shoves it down, too angry to care, and heads for the exit.   

* * *

In some ways, it’s even worse than the argument before Kentucky.

The angry responses Eggsy had planned to say when Harry strolled back from whatever the fuck he was going to do in Kentucky had died when Harry did, and the hurt and anger seemed to be lost in whisk of flying Harry home after reconstructive surgery and a medically-induced coma, guiding Harry through physical therapy, and helping him move back into Stanhope Mews and Kingsman. Somehow, the argument never resurfaced in conversations, and when Eggsy had thought about it, it seemed tactless to bring it up in the midst of Harry nearly dying.

They still had to deal with this, though. It hasn’t been fixed, and probably can’t be, not completely. But it can’t be swept under the rug any longer.

When Eggsy lets himself in, he takes JB out before heading straight upstairs. He hadn’t turned on any of the lights, so the house is filled with shadows and a bit cold. Not bothering to pull on any pyjamas or brush his teeth, Eggsy opens the last door across from their bedroom.

He and Harry had discussed the guest room, with Harry pointing out the bed and the rollaway in case Eggsy’s mum and Daisy showed up, then entertaining him with stories where Merlin, Percival, and the old Lancelot would be too pissed to call for a cab home after poker games. Merlin had always ended up slumping on the couch with Mr. Pickle, while Percival and James took the guest bedroom, with Percival flatly refusing to sleep on the floor and Harry insisting that his house was clean, thank you very much.

But somehow, Eggsy hadn’t thought about sleeping in it himself.

The bedspread is stiff from the hospital corners Harry loves to make, and there’s no warm body to curl up against, but Eggsy huddles under the detergent-scented covers and tries to fall asleep.

* * *

He wakes up to the sound of the shower running and reluctantly gets up, sneaking into their bedroom like a thief in the night to grab some clothes for the day. Eggsy surveys the room, not knowing what to do for a moment. He’s gotten too used to this, this comfortable routine with rotating shower schedules; peeking at each other getting dressed; and heading downstairs, Harry making breakfast and Eggsy taking out JB.

“Oh.” Someone says, and Eggsy freezes in the middle of shutting the closet, pieces of his suit draped over his arm. “Good morning,” Harry continues, but it’s in that coolly-polite tone, the sort he uses with posh pricks who stroll into the shop and snap their fingers at Andrew or one of the employees as if they’re trained dogs.

“Morning,” Eggsy mutters, then makes his escape to the guest room, closing the door behind him.  

Now, he’s in a bit of dilemma. He and Harry always opt to walk down to the shop together with JB in the tow so he can romp on the grounds with the other dogs, unless it’s pissing down. If he calls a cab to pick him up, the driver will wonder why Harry isn’t coming with him, and even though Kingsman claims to be gentlemen, that doesn’t stop them from gossiping like they’re in secondary again. The last thing he wants is for anyone to find out that he and Harry are having a row; he and Harry had agreed to keep domestic life and work life separate in the early days and hadn’t stopped.

In the end, he leashes up JB and walks out on his own towards Savile Row without breakfast. Andrew greets him politely, expression a little concerned. “Is Arthur all right?” he asks.

“Fine,” Eggsy says, trying a smile. “Just…heading out late. Told me to go without him.”

The old tailor gives him a scrutinizing look, but to Eggsy’s relief, simply nods. “The fitting room is available, sir.”

* * *

He manages to avoid Harry for a good portion of the next few days. It’s the longest he and Harry haven’t talked, and Eggsy hasn’t much with anyone else either. Roxy and Merlin definitely notice the chill, but wisely doesn’t bring anything up, only helping Eggsy with the mission.

Between him and Roxy, they learn how to defuse an EMP bomb with help from Merlin and his tech team, hack into Baron’s and Marjorie’s schedules to figure out when they’d arrive at the conference, and practice their aliases through science crash courses. Merlin had also helpfully created another two aliases for them as security guards at the event, and the uniforms were to be stashed in Roxy’s and Eggsy’s bags underneath an extra layer of lining.

Eggsy sleeps over at HQ when he can, then trudges back home to throw off suspicion because, yeah, he’s got a mission to prepare for and all, but when Roxy manages to get back to her flat at a decent hour, it looks a bit iffy. He and Harry don’t say much, eating silently at the kitchen table or in front of the telly, then separating to work on paperwork or play a video game. A few times, Eggsy considers bringing it up, but the silence weighs on him, pressing down so hard that it’s difficult to get the words out. He catches Harry looking at him once or twice and tells himself that if Harry wants to talk, Eggsy will, too.  

But he doesn’t.

It’s at the last pre-mission debriefing when they get a chance, though it’s as awkward and stiff as ever, with Roxy shooting them little glances and Merlin engaging them in at least two silent stare-downs. Eggsy and Roxy go over their plan, their contingencies, and their research, and finally, it’s over, and they both stand up to report to the plane.

Eggsy’s just beginning to walk out the door when Harry calls his name.

Turning around, Eggsy steps forward, shutting the door behind him. Harry’s still seated, hands folded, and for a moment, they’re both silent, waiting for a verdict.

It’s Eggsy who speaks first: “You can regret my dad’s death,” he says slowly. “I can’t stop you. But if you’re going to assume that everything that went wrong in my life is because of you, then…why did you ever ask me to dinner that night?”

Harry’s eyes become like windows someone’s drawn shutters over. “Ah,” he says, tone gone completely flat. “Eggsy, if you don’t wish to continue…”

“No!” Eggsy says, with such a vehemence that he surprises himself. “No, no, that’s not—I don’t want…” _I want us to talk. I want us to be able to walk away from this. I just want you to stop feeling so guilty._

“I’m never going to be not sorry about this,” Harry says.

“Well, it’s not doing you any good,” Eggsy retorts, then winces. “I barely knew my dad; I don’t blame you—“

“Well, you should.” Harry crosses his arms. “I knew Lee. You would have been much happier with him in your life.”

“Probably,” Eggsy says. “But he would have been Lancelot, yeah? It’s not like danger ends when the trials do.” His voice is softer. “Maybe I wouldn’t have known you. Maybe I would have just seen you as my dad’s friend, and I’d never—we’d never…”

“It would have far better,” Harry says, a bit too loudly, “if Lee had lived. Your mother would feel the same way, I’m sure. And you? Even if Lee hadn’t made it, you would have had a comfortable life. You would never know being hurt the way you were. You might have gone into the Marines—or university. You—“

“Coulda, woulda, shoulda,” Eggsy interrupts. “Do I miss my dad? Yeah. Do I think about what would have happened if he hadn’t…if he’d come home? Sometimes. But…what’s done is done, Harry.” He then takes a deep breath. “You didn’t push him into that grenade. You tried to jump on top of it yourself before my dad pushed you out of the way.”

Harry’s grief now shows clearly on his face. “I did. And I wish…”

Something in Eggsy’s chest collapses. _Jesus fuck_. “No. Harry, _no_.”

“If I had checked to see whether the target had a bomb, if I had been faster…”

“Harry.” Eggsy finds himself holding Harry, arms around Harry’s broad shoulders, with Harry’s face buried into his chest, glasses pressing against the medal beneath his shirt. “Harry.”

“I could have saved him,” Harry says, voice slightly muffled. “I suppose in the back of my mind, I thought I could do the same.”

“But I will go,” Eggsy says softly. Harry’s shoulders stiffen, his hands curling into the back of Eggsy’s shirt, but Eggsy holds fast. “I _will_ go,” he repeats.

For a few long moments, they’re like that, holding onto what they have in that moment, grief and guilt winding in between them. Eggsy knows that Harry’s kept his father’s memory under glass like his butterflies, displayed sharply for him throughout the years, never packed away in a box, and the danger of it all smashing out is pulling him apart.

But Eggsy _has_ to go. He has to prove to Harry that he can this, and Harry’s soft, nearly inaudible sigh tells of acquiescence.  

Then, his glasses chime.

“Look, I gotta go, but…” Eggsy gently pushes Harry away so that they can kiss. It doesn’t make this right, but it’s a step, a reassurance. “Let’s talk about this later. Please.”

Harry nods. “Yes,” he agrees. Just as Eggsy walks towards the door, Harry says, “I asked you to dinner because when I woke up from that coma, the first thing I wanted to know about was if you were all right. And I promised myself that if you were, I wouldn’t do the cowardly thing of simply wondering how you would react.” He looks down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them. “I thought you might say no.”

Eggsy shakes his head. He knows Harry, knows about the reasons he’d likely rattled off to himself on why he shouldn’t have. Yeah, one of those had been his dad, he’s sure of it, but it hadn’t mattered to him then, and despite everything, doesn’t matter to him now. “I didn’t.”

“You could have.”

“But I didn’t,” Eggsy retorts, then opens the door, taking one last look at Harry before he goes. “And if I could go back, I’d say the same thing.”

* * *

“Ready?” Roxy asks, hoisting up her briefcase. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun, her glasses are perched on her nose, and her dark-grey suit is neatly pressed, ready for whatever happens next.  

Eggsy nods, stepping out of the cab and onto the sidewalk. “Ready.” He’s not Eggsy now; he’s Galahad—more accurately, Daniel Hardy, happily wedded to a brilliant scientist, hair combed back and a briefcase of his own in hand. “Let’s go.”

There are signs leading them to the registration table in different languages, and Roxy and Eggsy stand in line, pretending to check their phones while scanning the area for their targets. Some people smile and ask them where they’re from, what they’re presenting, and how long they’d been married, and they both smile back and rattle off that they’re from London, they’re just looking around at the different panels, and they’d been married for two years. After that, conversation mostly fizzles out—they’re younger and less established than most of the old-timers—and that’s fine with them.

When they finally reach the table, they’re asked their names and present their IDs, sailing through a brief security check with ease. It takes no time to get their badges, along with a swag bag, and stroll through the convention center to look for their man. They schmooze with scientists when accosted, but very rarely are they are accosted. People seem to just want to stick together with their own colleagues or wander about without having to say hello to anyone or talk loudly and pompously about their papers.

Marjorie is one of those people who’s avoiding company, lingering by the refreshments and slowly sipping champagne in a navy-blue dress. On her way to get some shrimp puffs, Roxy lightly bumps into her, placing the bug, and makes quick small talk before walking back to Eggsy. “Looks like she’s preparing for some presentation,” she says. “She’ll be onstage in an hour.”

“So, we got a while,” Eggsy says. Hopefully, Baron isn’t going to try anything with her up on stage, but he’s met enough megalomaniacs to be cautious. “Now, let’s hang around a bit before he gets here.”

Baron’s flight had been late, so Eggsy and Roxy’s plan of getting there before the convention started was a bust. According to Merlin, he hadn’t arrived yet, so Eggsy and Roxy planned to keep an eye on Marjorie and on the line for Baron.

Since Marjorie seemed inclined to hang in the back and do nothing but eat and go on her phone, their job slowly got a bit boring. Roxy wanders around, pretending to look at various booths and panels and keeping an eye on the registration table, while Eggsy keeps an eye on Marjorie, eating shrimp puffs, bon bons, mini quiches, and several crackers topped with caviar or various expensive cheeses and drinking the sangria punch.

“Target just got in,” Merlin reports.

“I see him,” Roxy says. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Right,” Eggsy says, then looks around, casually scanning for Roxy, then pulls his eyes away. “Shit.” Marjorie is no longer at the table. “Yeah, got to find her.”

Thanks to the bug, Eggsy’s informed that Marjorie is heading towards the main stage in one of the halls in the convention center. It’s twenty minutes to her presentation.

Consulting his map, Eggsy heads for the room. She’d be backstage, probably preparing, and he quickly ducks into a nearby supply closet—jiggled open by some quick lock-picking skills—and changes into his security guard uniform and stashing his suit in his briefcase. It’s full of fake folders and pens and a generic tablet and a few extra bugs, and Eggsy hides the briefcase behind a few drop cloths and a tool box. The tools Merlin packed in for him are on his person, slipped in his trouser pockets and at his belt.

Flashing another ID at a security guard, Eggsy ducks backstage, looking around. Jacket folded over her arm, Marjorie’s chatting with someone setting up the laptop on the podium as people are already beginning to take their seats.

Eggsy breathes a silent sigh of relief. Now, he just has to keep an eye on her.

“Nervous, Dr. Gray?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve been practicing day and night, even got here a bit early to just stand on here and see what the view’s like.”

The man laughs. “That’s a good idea. One of my boys is in drama this year and gets terrible stage fright. Maybe that’ll help.”

“Hopefully,” Marjorie says, smiling. “Tell him that even after thirty years of presenting, it never quite goes away, but if you can, stare at a fixed point above the audience's heads—”

“In here now,” Roxy says in his ear. “I see her.”

“I’m backstage,” Eggsy replies, pretending he’s communicating with the walkie-talkie. “Baron?”

“Back row. Sitting behind him.”

“Good. Did you find…?”

“No. He just went straight here.”

Eggsy frowns. Something’s up. “Straight here? It’s getting crowded; he won’t have a much of a chance—”

“Maybe he’ll slip out after she’s done. There’s a lot of people crammed in here; no one will notice.”

“Right. I’ll keep an eye on her.” Eggsy glances at Marjorie, who’s stepping back to sit on a folding chair, draping her jacket over her lap, and turning her head to greet whoever’s taking a seat beside her. Some bloke comes up to the podium, telling everyone that the program will start in five minutes, and the giant screen behind them starts descending.

“Excuse me?” someone asks, and Eggsy turns. It’s an elderly woman, hobbling on a cane, looking a bit sheepish. “Can you tell me where the toilets are?”

Eggsy nods, pulling out a map, and winces when the woman squints rather painfully at the small print, looking confused at the twisting corridors. “I’ll show you, ma’am,” he says. “It won’t take long.”

Quickly, he leads her to where she wants to go, her thanking him profusely, and turns. He can’t hear Marjorie now—maybe she’d slipped backstage for something and left her jacket behind—and goes to the supply closet from earlier, thinking he might need that extra bug in his briefcase. In no time, Eggsy does his magic on the lock and slips in.

This isn’t the right room. It’s full of electronics and cords and blinking blue lights.

It also has something that looks very, very familiar.

“Merlin…” Eggsy says slowly. “I think I may have found our bomb.”

“What?” Merlin practically squawks.   

“I don’t understand,” Roxy says. “Merlin, you said he wasn’t here in Venice until now.”

“He wasn’t. Someone must have done it for him.”

“Marjorie went backstage, but she’s just come back now,” Roxy reports. “She’s got a water bottle.”

Eggsy’s stomach shifts uneasily. “Do you think…?”

“It looks unopened,” she says. “She hasn’t drank anything yet. Baron hasn’t moved…”

“But it could be from him,” Eggsy says, “or he got someone else to do it.” He shakes his head. Shit. Roxy could hardly go up on stage, not while keeping in character and having an eye on Baron. “I’ll try to get back there as soon as I can,” Eggsy promises.

He then turns to the bomb, glowing fluorescent blue in the dark room. Right. Disarm this, run to the stage, try to prevent Marjorie from drinking the water. No problem.

“Galahad, do you need instructions?”

“Got this,” Eggsy says. It hasn’t been activated yet, which is something. “I got this.”

Pulling out the tools from his belt and trouser pockets, Eggsy gets to work. His mind focuses sharply, his breathing steadying, slowly falling into what Ryan and Jamal had called _the zone_ while Eggsy hotwired a sleek, grey Jaguar. His hands did all the work for him, mind floating outside his body, allowing whatever dormant instinct and muscle memory to kick in. He knew exactly what to do and how to do it.

The instructions repeat in his head as he opens up the panel, glancing up at the blue light blinking in its iron cage, like some oversized lantern. He hears Marjorie speaking, hears Roxy breathing, and hears Merlin rattling off tips. He feels his fingers become light, deft, quick—skillfully doing what they’ve been trained to do—and his knees begin to ache from kneeling on the floor. The panic he should be feeling channels itself into focus, then something lighter.

He can do this. He can do this.

And luckily for him, his security guard uniform came with some perks.

He inserts the taser into the panel and turns it on. The light flares alarmingly, jumping like a bright blue flame, and dies.

Carefully, carefully with Merlin hissing in his ear, Eggsy makes sure it’s deactivated for good before beginning the slow, crucial process of prying it from the wall. He’s fucking lucky he’s got his security uniform on because he won’t know how to go about explaining it in his Daniel Hardy disguise.

And once it’s sitting in his lap, the warmth slowly dying away, Eggsy takes what seems like his first breath, shuddering. He can feel his heartbeat pumping frantically in its chest, in his thumbs, in his jaw, and his legs feel as weak as a kitten’s.

“It’s disarmed,” Eggsy reports, voice a bit breathless. “Gonna put it in the briefcase.”

“Well done, Galahad,” Merlin praises.

“Yeah,” Roxy says, with a sigh of relief. “Yeah.”

Eggsy nods, then packs up his gear and, checking first to make sure the hall was empty, finds his supply closet. He quickly dissembles the bomb into pieces to go inside his briefcase, then takes out a few bugs and slips them into his trousers, and stashes everything where it was, praying Marjorie would get through her presentation so he could take up the briefcase again.

But for now, it looks like everything is good.

The presentation goes off well, mostly stuff Eggsy doesn’t really have wrapped around his head with the ease of a doctorate degree-carrying scientist, and Marjorie, flushed with a bit of sweat and a nervous smile, takes a little bow.

Roxy reports that Baron is just sitting there in his seat, texting.

“It’s a flip phone,” she says dryly, and Eggsy can imagine her rolling her eyes. “He might be really broke.”

“A flip phone?” Eggsy says. “Maybe it’s an old people thing.”

“Watch it,” Merlin warns.

“Old _er_ people thing,” Eggsy corrects, then looks out on stage. Marjorie’s heading towards him, phone in her hand, texting.

But it doesn’t look like the nice touch screen she had at the refreshments table. It looks...black, small, and cheap.  

“Roxy,” Eggsy says slowly, “can you see what Baron’s texting? Get his phone somehow?”

“Hold on,” Roxy says, and Eggsy looks around, keeping Marjorie in his sights. She’s put her phone back in her jacket pocket and is talking to someone who’s rambling on and on about her presentation. Still in his security guard uniform, Eggsy walks past and does his thing, walking away with her phone clasped between his fingers, not daring to look back.

He goes to the closet, slips on his suit, picks up the briefcase, and opens the phone.

“They’re to someone here,” Roxy’s saying. “ _Didn’t work_...I guess he’s talking about the…”

“Yeah,” Eggsy says, then reads, _“I thought you said—”_

 _“...It would,”_ Roxy finishes.

There’s a long stretch of silence.

“They were in on it together,” Eggsy says, mind spinning different scenarios and not being able to come up with one. “But why would…”

“He was going to do it during her presentation,” Roxy says, obviously skim-reading through the texts.

Eggsy thinks. “The lights would be out. There would be a lot of people there. Probably a bit of shock…”

“And people’s phones won’t work,” Roxy continues. “So, there’d be some panic…”

“And then…” Eggsy says, but can’t think of anything else. What had been the end game?

“They’re going to notice their phones are gone,” Roxy muses. “And you got, you know. Do you think we should turn everything over to the authorities?”

“It might be best,” Merlin says, voice strained. “Get out of there, both of you.”

Eggsy nods, beginning to head for the exit.

“Wait,” Roxy says, and her voice sounds panicked now. “There’s a second one.”

“A what?” Eggsy begins scrolling through the phone, but there are only a few messages from today. She must have been smarter than her ex, deleting what evidence was there before. “Where?”

“He’s got the detonator,” Roxy says, practically whispering. “Shit. I got a bug on him, and I see him; he’s heading outside. I’m on it.”

Merlin’s voice comes through the glasses, tense and grim. “Galahad, get everyone to clear the building now. Lancelot—“

But Roxy’s already after him, judging by her frenzied panting, and Eggsy begins praying, slipping Marjorie’s phone into his pocket. He can’t get too far, he just can’t, but if he gets out of the building and down the street—

“Excuse me,” he says, turning a security guard around, “you have to evacuate immediately.” He pulls out Marjorie’s phone and shows him the texts. “There’s a bomb in this building.”

The security guard takes one look at Eggsy’s face, decides he’s not messing around, and pulls out his walkie-talkie. “Security breach. Bomb threat. Evacuate the premises.”

As the guards begin to converge, the loudspeaker begins to blare, booming instructions in Italian, English, and other different languages: “Please head calmly to the exits immediately. Please head calmly to the exits immediately.” People are murmuring in confusion, some looking around for whoever they came with, but everyone obeys. A few begin sprinting as soon as they reach the door, running out into the street.

Eggsy gets moving himself, looking around, trying to spot Marjorie in the chaos, but he can’t. “Where the fuck is she?” he snaps.

“Galahad,” Merlin warns, “hurry and go.”

“Merlin, I can find where it’s hidden, just let me—”

“Go, Galahad! _Now_!”

Eggsy grits his teeth, giving the room one last scan, but does what he’s told, feeling two buzzes from the phone in his hand.

He just makes it out of the doorway when the bomb explodes.


	3. after

 

 

* * *

 “No,” Ms. Unwin says when she opens the door. “ _No_ , you don’t get to do this to me anymore.”

“Ms. Unwin,” Harry assures her, every ounce of training pouring into keeping his voice and body language steady, “Eggsy is alive. But there’s been a…an accident.”

“Someone rob the store? Stab him with a needle?” Ms. Unwin looks like she’s going to lunge for him any moment now. “What kind of _accident_ did my son have?”

Harry shakes his head. “I can’t tell you about it here.” He gestures to the car waiting outside. “If you wish to drop Daisy off somewhere—“

“I want to see him,” Ms. Unwin interrupts, then calls for Daisy. Her hands are trembling as she zips up the jacket, bright yellow like one of Eggsy’s tracksuits, then goes to her car and hauls out the child seat, snapping at Harry when he tries to help. Settling her in the back, Ms. Unwin then climbs into the middle and fastens her seatbelt.

“Take me to him,” she demands.  

The ride is long and awkward, Ms. Unwin refusing to look at him, body stiff and pulling away from Harry beside her. Daisy’s eyes are closed in sleep, oblivious to what is happening.

“What happened to him?” Ms. Unwin asks.

Harry sits up, adjusting the lapels of his jacket, his armor, fighting to keep his tone calm: “As you might have guessed, Eggsy was recruited for the same job your husband was. Kingsman.” He decides not to recite the history, as he’d done for Lee and Eggsy, as Ms. Unwin’s lips have tightened impatiently. “It’s an independent spy organization.”

“And you recruited him.”

“Yes, I did. I saw potential in him, and he exceeded expectations.”

Ms. Unwin’s eyes briefly flash with pride, then settle into worry and anger. “So, I’m guessing…something went wrong. Did he get shot?”

“No,” Harry says. “There was…a bomb. He managed to get everyone out to safety, but was caught in the blast as he was exiting.”

“How…how injured is he?”

Harry takes a deep breath. “They operated on him in Venice before transferring him here. They had to...cut open his head and remove some of the skull to prevent swelling. He’s been badly burned, so he has skin grafts. The doctors say his eyesight is all right, though they had to perform a minor operation for his eardrums. But it was the impact…” He closes his eyes. It’s a miracle that Eggsy is still alive. “He’s in a coma right now.”

Ms. Unwin is silent for a moment, tears glittering at the corners of her eyes, lips trembling.

Then she turns to him and strikes him hard in the face.

“Sir!” the driver exclaims.

“It’s quite all right,” Harry says, not rubbing his cheek. He’s had worse, and he deserves far more than a slap. “It’s all right.”

“It’s _not_ all right,” Ms. Unwin hisses, raising, then lowering her hand after a brief glance at her sleeping daughter. “Fuck you! Fuck you for bring my family into this! Fuck _you_!”

Holding onto the armor of a gentleman is all he has: “I’m sorry.”

“ _You’re_ sorry?” Ms. Unwin briefly buries her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. “Killing my husband wasn’t good enough, so you go for my son? Is this how you repay Lee?”

Harry can say no more, guilt and ugliness twisting inside his chest. His cheek burns, and he can imagine a bright red mark on the pale skin, nothing compared to Eggsy’s—or Ms. Unwin’s—own wounds.

“If he dies,” Ms. Unwin says shortly, allowing tears to escape, as Harry turns away to allow her some semblance of privacy, “then it will be your fault.”

* * *

Dr. Seng looks curiously at the presence of two civilians, but rapidly explains, “G—Eggsy is in relatively stable condition. But it's the impact that is tricky, you see. The pressure of being so close to that bomb—it gave him a nasty knock on the head." She sighs. “The blast—the shockwave—hit his body with the compressed air with force, so he was knocked off his feet and hit his head. All we can do is monitor him for now.”

“How long will he be like that?” Ms. Unwin asks, barely above a whisper. She glances down at her feet, where Daisy's still sleeping in the car seat-turned-carrier, something Harry remembers Eggsy searching for online, combing through reviews and going around the manor to ask for recommendations.  _Only the best for my sister._

Dr. Seng shakes her head. “I’m sorry. We do not know at this time, but…we are confident he will wake up. He is young and strong.” She glances at the closed door, where the hospital bed and machines are be faintly seen through the glass. “We have to keep an eye on him—brain swelling, trauma, infection—and massage his limbs. He will lose muscle atrophy and will have to have extensive therapy afterwards. We don’t know the degree of memory loss, and he will be groggy and disoriented as well. Not to scare you both, but I’m only letting you know what we are doing to help him and have an idea of what it will be like.”

“All right.” Ms. Unwin faintly nods. “But you believe he’ll…he’ll live?”

Dr. Seng hesitates; she doesn’t like giving reassurances with all the potential factors, especially as a Kingsman doctor. But taking one look at Ms. Unwin’s anxious face, she repeats, “We are confident he will wake up. It may take a while, but…”

Ms. Unwin nods again, closing her eyes and holding them that way for a few seconds before saying, “I want to see him.”

Harry’s already seen Eggsy, but it’s still a shock to see the young man behind the door: eyes shut, bandages stark white against the light blue hospital gown. He’s hooked to machines that breathe for him, chest rising and falling with artificial whooshes from the tube in his mouth, already roughened and chapped. There are bruises standing out against the flesh that isn’t covered, dark and purple, and his hands are limp at his sides.

The doctors at the Italian branch has been the ones to see Harry, the Arthur of Kingsman, almost fall to his knees and clutch at Eggsy’s hand, wrapped in sticky tape to keep the IV in place. To his shame, he’d felt embarrassment, nurtured by repression, when he’d let out a choking sob, echoing in the silent room.

But Eggsy—how could he have allowed this? How could he have agreed to send him out on that mission?

 _Because you are Arthur, and it is your job_ , he thinks. _Eggsy is not made for being closed in._

Ms. Unwin slowly walks over, sets Daisy's carrier down on the floor beside the bed, collapses into the chair set out for this purpose, and takes Eggsy’s hand, squeezing tightly, her other hand clasping tightly over her mouth as her shoulders begin to shake. “Eggsy,” she says softly, but the young man doesn’t answer. “Eggsy, I’m here.”

Slowly, Harry backs out, shutting the door softly behind him. He nods to Dr. Seng, then touches his glasses as he walks towards his office, though he knows he will not be able to get a single thing done.

“Merlin, have someone set up a room for Ms. Unwin and her daughter,” Harry requests. “I will debrief with Roxy tomorrow.”

“Roxy might not be up to it,” Merlin replies. “Her injuries were not as bad as Eggsy’s, but she’s still wounded. And…not taking it well.”

“She thought he was out of there.”

“Nevertheless, she feels guilty. I have her in my office, sleeping on the couch.” Merlin sighs. “This was a shit show. Roxy managed to subdue Baron; he saw her running after him and got into a cab, but she managed to chase him down in someone’s Vespa. It also appears that Marjorie got away, but we’ve tracked her to an airline in Scotland. Roxy wants to finish the job.”

“Let her if she gets cleared by Medical and pair her with Percival,” Harry says mechanically. He knows how Roxy feels, wanting to redeem herself and vengeance for her friend. Roxy's one of their most capable and cool-headed agents, but even the calmest person has something that sets them off. She'll need Percival, a familiar face and senior agent, by her side, and extra back-up is always helpful in their line of work. “Did Baron talk to the authorities?”

“No,” Merlin says. “But it’s easy to guess that he wanted revenge and blamed everyone else but himself. All we know about Marjorie is that she was involved—seemingly willingly, judging by the texts.”

Harry shakes his head. “Find her,” he orders. “And if you need me, Merlin, I’ll be with Eggsy.”

* * *

 

 

* * *

The days are long and unchanging. He visits Eggsy when Ms. Unwin is not there and when work ceases for a brief second. The knights and staff tiptoe around him with pitying looks, and even Bors is silent for once. Harry works, filling out paperwork and debriefing agents and meeting with various heads of branches and negotiating with independent donors, but allowing himself to go home to get a bag of clothes and toiletries, along with JB, who snuggles up to him whenever he sees Harry.

He cannot allow himself to slip. Kingsman is in much better shape than it was during the first few weeks after V-Day, but the organization is still very delicate—decreases in finances and staff, overworked techs and agents, deceased connections. He misses the days where he could just go out and do the job and that would be the end of it. Now, it never leaves.

Eggsy had been a rock, steady and sure in the days of healing. He never knew how much he’d relied upon Eggsy and feels guilty for it. How many nights had Eggsy woken him up from the blood and heat from Kentucky? How many days had Eggsy demanded that Harry lie down and rest on the couch in his office during his more severe migraines? How many hours had he spent by Harry's side in physical and mental therapy?

And how little time had he held Eggsy in his arms, told him that he loved him?

Harry does not walk to the chapel on the grounds next to the fields where recruits search for each other in the dark, but instead, drops his head and folds his hands when he feels at the most desperate, murmuring prayers he remembers from his childhood. _Please give him back,_ he begs. _Please give him back._

* * *

Roxy and Percival track down Marjorie as she's fleeing to Madagascar and turn her into the proper authorities. She and Baron will both surely be convicted, even though the people they intended to murder had escaped, but if Crown Court failed, Harry would personally make sure their lives will be a living hell. Kingsman still doesn’t know all the details, but Marjorie reportedly asked about Baron’s welfare and when she’d be able to see him. Whether she loved him out of genuine affection or coercion, Harry doesn't know and doesn't care to dissect it with the same relish as the other agents do over tea. 

He'd sent Roxy to get her mandated twenty-four hours of rest after completing her mission and debriefing with him. Although Harry offered to have a cab ready for her outside the shop to take her back to her flat, he suspects that Roxy will spent the night at Eggsy's bedside with Ms. Unwin. He hears from the staff that she chats with Eggsy whenever she sees a chance and knows from Eggsy that she had been the one to tell Eggsy that coma patients could sometimes have awareness of their surroundings while unconscious during the trials.  

“You need to rest, Harry,” Merlin says when Harry visits him in his office that evening to go over budget concerns. “I saw you wobble just a bit when you stood up the other day.”

“Rest? What is rest?” Harry asks dryly.

“More than what you’re having.”

“Says the person who can fall asleep standing up,” Harry retorts, but the banter has little humor in it for him.

Merlin refuses to acknowledge this. “When is the last time you have eaten?”

“In the morning.” A sandwich, he recalls, from the cafeteria, with limp lettuce and tasteless turkey. There had been crisps on the side as well, but he’d left them in their bag, untouched.

“It’s the dinner hour,” Merlin points out. “You haven’t eaten since then?”

Harry’s silent, and with a long, searching look, Merlin puts down his tablet and pushes a button on the desk. “Bring us two dinners, please, and some tea, no alcohol.”

“What sort of meals, sir?” the voice on the other end asks.  

“Hearty ones. Enough to feed an elephant.” Merlin takes his finger away, pointing accusingly at Harry. “Just because Eggsy is out of commission does not mean you have to do this.”

“Do what?”

“A fucked up piece of penance. Not eating, not sleeping—you’re punishing yourself. It was not your fault. Unlike,” Merlin continues, a bit more coolly, “your treatment of Galahad as your lover and not a knight.”

“About the demolitions missions? Look at what happened!”

“Nevertheless, Eggsy was right.” Merlin looks him in the eye. “If you didn’t want him in danger, you shouldn’t have proposed him.”

When did Eggsy talk to Merlin about this? “I know Eggsy is capable. I just—“

“Wanted control? Thought you could prevent a demise, if only _that_ specific demise?”

“Don’t fucking psycho-analyze me, Merlin—”

“You normally do whatever you like, and damn the consequences. And what makes it worse is that you’re not just a knight anymore, you’re _Arthur._ You are supposed to be—“

“Above this?” Harry retorts.

“Yes!” Merlin snaps back. “You’re the one who shot your dog; you even put him in the bloody loo so you can be reminded about what you’re willing to lose.”

“I have been a Kingsman for years. I don’t need to be reminded on what I can lose.” Harry glares. “But I see. You want me to admit it? All right, then—I’m a horrible Arthur. I should put Kingsman first and everything second, but I can’t. Eggsy is first, and I want him alive and with me because—because if I _lost_ him—”

He couldn’t continue, and thankfully, Merlin didn’t prompt him to. Instead, he says, “You’re also avoiding Ms. Unwin.”

Harry sees no reason to lie. “I am.” How can she be near him?

“Avoiding her is making it worse, and she’s not the only one suffering in this.” Merlin’s voice is stern. “No one is really talking to her regularly. She only comes and goes to take Daisy to school and pick her up and go to her job.”

“Her job? We can pay—“

“She needs to stay busy, as we all do. Harry, he’s her son—and not to diminish Daisy in any way, but he’s Lee’s blood.”

The last link in the chain. “I don’t know what I can do for her.”

“Just…don’t skirt around like you do. Don’t ask her how she’s feeling in general. Ask her how she’s feeling _today_.” Merlin folds his arms across his chest. “If you two could lean on each other through this, it would help.”

* * *

“Oh,” Harry says the next evening when Ms. Unwin spins around in her seat, hand still gripping Eggsy’s. “I apologize; I’ll—”

“No, you can stay,” she says, voice monotone. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, her cardigan hanging limp around her body. She hasn’t bothered with any makeup and a slight shine to her hair makes Harry suspect she hasn’t cared about her appearance for a good while.

Harry holds up the tray he’d requested. “I thought you would like some food.”

Ms. Unwin looks up, seeming to notice the array of pasta in pesto sauce, a steaming chunk of garlic bread, a bowl of fruit, a small plate of crisps with mushy peas and tiny bowls of dips, and a thermos of tea perched on the plastic surface for the first time. “Thank you,” she says, after a long pause, then holds out her hands.

Handing it over, Harry watches as she sets it down on her lap, but doesn’t take a bite. In any other circumstance, he’d joke about it not being poisoned, but it seems rather tasteless. He can tell her to eat, that she needs her strength for her children, but he can’t give her orders.

Instead, he places one hand on Eggsy’s arm, rubbing it gently. “How is he?”

“They just turned him over so he won’t get sores,” she says. “Also massaged his limbs and such.” The corners of her mouth turn down. “They said that they can remove the skin grafts in a couple days.”

“Good,” Harry says, meaning to sound relieved, but it only comes out stiff and formal, as if she had been talking about the weather.

Her frown deepens. “Roxy came in, too, apologized for...for what had happened.” She looks at Eggsy, his still, pale face. “She seems like a nice girl, the times I’ve seen her.”

“She is,” Harry agrees. “She’s one of our most intelligent, young agents. She and Eggsy are paired up most often.”

“If only,” Ms. Unwin says, gaze still on her son, “they did in a personal sense as well.”

Harry looks away. Yes. That would have been a better choice, in some ways. Eggsy and Roxy are fellow knights, close in age, and good friends. There would have been little fuss and less paperwork and would have seemed more natural. He could imagine it: Percival giving Eggsy a shovel talk, Roxy and Eggsy working together perfectly in the field, and them beaming at each other after a successful mission.

He can think of no words to defend himself, but Ms. Unwin doesn’t seem inclined to keep going. She leans forward in her seat, careful not to disturb the tray, and strokes her son’s fingers. Harry keeps his hand on Eggsy’s arm, and together, they sit in silence.

* * *

Harry gets used to seeing Ms. Unwin, and she seems to be, at the very least, tolerating his presence. They don’t talk, and he’s learned that when he brings food for just Ms. Unwin, she doesn’t eat in front of him, but when he comes bearing two meals, she’s more likely to have a few bites. It’s better when Roxy or Merlin or the doctors come in to act as some sort of buffer, and Harry also notices that Ms. Unwin takes in every word the doctors say, mentally filing it away. She quizzes them on the various treatments, why they’re effective and how they will help, and spots her looking up a few of the terms and procedures on her phone.

Harry doesn't see Daisy in the hospital room after that first night, and asking around, finds out Ms. Unwin hasn't brought her to the manor. When Ms. Unwin offhandedly mentions Daisy’s being looked after by a friend of hers, Harry offers to have one of the staff members  keep an eye on her, but Ms. Unwin hesitates.

“It really is no trouble,” he says. “Many here are used to working with children.”

Ms. Unwin’s hands twist in her lap, and her front teeth briefly come out to bite her lip. Her brow furrows, and she looks down at Eggsy, chest softly and mechanically rising and falling, eyes still closed.  “I'll think about it,” she finally replies.

Harry hesitates, then pulls out something from his jacket pocket. "Here." 

Ms. Unwin looks up, then her eyes narrow, body flinching away from him as if he'd pulled a weapon on her. "You're not—"

"No," Harry says quickly, "this is Eggsy's. They had to...cut it away so they could do surgery, and I thought you might like to hold onto it." 

Staring up at him, Ms. Unwin doesn't say a word, then her eyes drift to the medal on its chain hanging from Harry's fingers. It's a bit misshapen, but still resembles the one Harry had dug out of one of Kingsman's vaults to give to the last of the Unwin family, standing there helplessly as Merlin stamped the date on the back. Eggsy had told him that his mother had dug up a chain somewhere and looped it around his neck, making him take it off during the night so he wouldn't accidentally strangle himself, but he'd started wearing it all time underneath his shirt so Dean wouldn't find it.  _He would have pawned it, if he could,_ Eggsy had told him, voice trembling with another yawn.  _Or chucked it. Just didn't want anything of Dad hanging around._

Harry's beginning to wonder if this is a mistake, that this is another cruel reminder of her late husband and her son currently laying in a hospital bed, when Ms. Unwin reaches out and takes the medal, just barely brushing his fingers. 

* * *

"You have to eat," Merlin repeats for the third time, standing in the doorway of his office. 

Harry blearily looks up at his friend. His stomach aches and twists, but he stubbornly refuses to get up and walk to the cafeteria. "I have just finished these reports and was just about to go see Eggsy."

"No." His friend steps forward, and Harry's reminded that Merlin won nearly half of their sparring matches when they were fellow candidates. He normally wouldn't worry, but his head feels light enough that he thinks it won't be much of a chore for Merlin. "You will sit down with me, and you will eat a full meal. We will not leave the cafeteria until you do." 

"But—" 

"Ms. Unwin is on her way, and Roxy just got back from her Montreal mission. They can sit with Eggsy." 

"I should debrief with her," Harry says faintly. 

"No," Merlin snaps. "I told her it can wait until morning. You are eating willingly, or I'm asking Medical to help jam a food tube down your throat."

Reluctantly, Harry stands up, taking care to do it slowly, and obediently follows Merlin out the door. Waiting for them is a buffet, where a few agents are lined up at, with comfortable padded chairs. Harry sits down, and Merlin orders for him: a bowl of soup, some chicken tikka masala, and a plateful of different greens and fruits. True to his word, Merlin sits across from him, staring Harry down until he eats most of his meal, plus a few cups of tea. Then he insists on Harry sitting for a while so the food can digest, and just as Harry's feeling well enough to attempt to make a break for it, Merlin graciously allows him to leave, providing him with a thermos of tea before he goes. 

When he gets to the door of Eggsy's room, he hears voices: Roxy and Ms. Unwin.

"... Don't know whether to let Daisy see him," Ms. Unwin's saying, and Harry, although it is not very polite, listens to the rest. "Part of me thinks she's...she's got to see him. But...I don't know. She's so young, and..." She trails off, then says, “Eggsy used to be young, too.”

"From what Eggsy has told me about Daisy, she's very intelligent." 

Ms. Unwin laughs a little. "Yes, but to hear Eggsy talk about her, you'd think she'd already cured cancer and traveled to space. He's a good brother. A bit...extravagant at times—he's gone so often, and I can tell he feels guilty about it."

"It's sort of what my dad did," Roxy says dryly. "Thought he could give me the world, but I didn't want the world. I just wanted him." 

"And that's what Daisy wants," Ms. Unwin replies, an unspoken _me too_ in her voice. "He does dote on her when he's here, though. Reads to her and all. She really liked that _Howl's Moving Castle_ book." 

"I love that, even today." Harry can picture Roxy smiling. "Did you just finish it?" 

"A few...weeks ago. We were starting the _Percy Jackson_ series." Ms. Unwin's breath catches. "She keeps asking when he's gonna come around and finish it." 

Roxy sounds thoughtful. "I think if you bring Daisy, she wouldn't mind seeing her brother if there's a...an explanation prepared beforehand." 

"I told her that he's resting because he got hurt," Ms. Unwin replies simply. "She compared it to Sleeping Beauty, and well, I didn't know how to respond to that." She scoffs a little, then mutters something about cigarettes.  

"Snow White would work as well." 

"Ah, yes, I forgot about that. And Daisy...well, she asked if we could wake him up like in the film, but Hart's...well, he's not exactly a prince, is he?"  

"I hear he's got some nobility in him," Roxy easily replies. 

There's a short, derisive snort. "Bloody acts like it." 

"He does care for Eggsy, though." 

Harry waits, holding his breath. 

"If this is what his  _care_ results in, I'm not sure I like it very much," Ms. Unwin says, this time with a harder edge. 

Quietly, Harry edges away from the door. If he hadn't been sure before whether his presence would be welcomed or not, he can safely confirm that it wouldn't. 

* * *

 It's after Eggsy’s coma passes the two month mark that Ms. Unwin asks, a hint of what sounds like suspicion, “You’re in here an awful lot, aren't you?”

Harry doesn't quite know what to say for fear of it turning into a fight. “I am,” he confirms, after a long pause. Mentally, he winces, knowing he sounds like some insensitive prick with his armor of politeness. 

Ms. Unwin looks as if she wants to lobby a few choice words at him, but something causes her to only stare at him with narrowed eyes. Harry determinedly does not raise his own, focusing on his own hand holding Eggsy’s. The doctors were speaking optimistically of his vitals and healing, but it's up to Eggsy to wake up. All Harry and Ms. Unwin can do is wait.  

“I think it’s time we had a talk,” she begins, then folds her arms, looking very much like her son. Daisy is outside with Roxy, her dog, and JB, exploring the grounds, while Merlin is handling Bors and Percival's joint reconnaissance mission in Australia, so no one will be interrupting their conversation anytime soon. 

Harry takes a deep breath, grasping for what he'd learned about diplomacy from his etiquette lessons and hoping that they'd serve him well. This isn't a dinner party or a charity ball, but it's the best he can think of when being put on the spot like this.  _First: state the problem._  “I understand your dislike for me—"

“You can’t possibly understand," she interrupts, glaring at him fiercely.  

“No," Harry says hurriedly, stomach sinking. He'd fucked this up before it properly began, hasn't he? "No, you’re right.”

"You don't," Ms. Unwin continues. "You may have delivered news like this to lots of other families, and I understand that you got it all down, but you..." She shakes her head, turning away so he can't see the tears welling up in her eyes. "You just knocked and sat me down and just...just told me, just told me like you were reading from some bloody script. And Eggsy...that day, I didn't  _know._  I took Eggsy shopping, got him to try on a few sweaters, and made him some dinner. Told him that Lee might be back late, not in time for Christmas, but he'd be back. All that time, I thought he was with his squad, not...doing what Eggsy had been doing for all those months." Ms. Unwin wipes at her eyes, still refusing to look at Harry. "God, I wish I _knew_. Not like it would have done any good, but..."

Harry doesn't dare meet her eyes. Shame curls up in his chest, bringing up all the old emotions of grief and anger and self-loathing. He had replayed that moment over and over in his mind. How could he have missed it? He'd been in the field for nearly thirty years. He'd blamed Merlin for not reminding him and James for not remembering his training, but discarded those thoughts almost immediately. It had all been his fault. 

He'd warned Lee, told him that if he wanted to go back to his family that he could, but why would Lee, after hearing everything Harry had promised, so smugly and confidently? A house near the shop, a generous salary, opportunities for his wife and young son—similar things he'd extolled to Eggsy on the way to the manor. Harry knew then that he shouldn't have recruited Lee, that his attempt to bring more diversity into Kingsman and thumbing his nose at tradition and Chester King had turned out to be a tragedy, but when he saw Eggsy, he'd thought—

"You didn't even...you looked so emotionless," Ms. Unwin continues, then fixes him with another glare. "But now I see. You can't...you don't let yourself feel anything."

"It's not that," Harry begins to protest, but stops.

"No," she insists, "go on, say it."  

"I don't—" Harry fights against the words clamoring for space in his mind, pushing against his skull. "I do. I'm so sorry for Lee, for Eggsy. I only..." He's never been good with emotions, trained to never show them from childhood, his relationship with them becoming more complicated when he'd joined Kingsman, where he had to push down everything to play the role expected of him until they extinguished—so he thought. Merlin had helped, and so had Eggsy, but to his embarrassment, Ms. Unwin is right. He doesn't let himself feel anything; he can't, until he's fucked it up with the lack of them or with too much channeled into stubbornness and pride. 

"Only what?" Ms. Unwin demands. 

At a loss and overwhelmed, he manages to blurt out, "The medal, it's not allowed." 

She visibly startles. "What?" 

"The medal that I gave you. It's not allowed." Harry takes time to steady himself before continuing: "We're not allowed to let anyone know about Kingsman, not even families, or use our influence or money for personal reasons unless it proves necessary to international or domestic relations, though not everyone adheres to that." He clears his throat. "In my telling you that your husband was not with his squad and giving you that favor, I broke several rules." 

"It's not...protocol?" Ms. Unwin asks slowly. 

"No," Harry says. "However," he adds, knowing that he might destroy the sliver of goodwill that she might have been considering, "the speech...I did adapt it from one of our suggested texts." 

"Of course you did," she replies, then pulls the medal out from her bag, studying it underneath the light. Her fingers trace the date, and sadness comes over her face. "Eggsy…” She pauses. “Eggsy…never told me about his job. Or about you. But I...I did suspect. The first one, I mean.”

“How?” Harry asks, out of genuine curiosity.

Ms. Unwin glances down at Eggsy, then takes his hand briefly, giving it a quick and gentle squeeze. “Lots of little things that added up.” Then: “But somehow, I didn't come up with the idea that you two…”

He senses that this will be a touchy subject, but says honestly, “I care for him. Very much. I’m not sure how to prove to you that my feelings are nothing lecherous or untoward, but I can tell you that he makes me happier than I’ve ever been in years.”

She only stares at him, waiting for him to continue.

“I’ve told him,” Harry says, remembering that day, “that I was too old, too broken, too foolish for him, but he wouldn’t accept any of that.” It’s an understatement. He still recalls Eggsy’s fierce indignation, his _fuck, Harry, I don’t care about any of that!_ “It’s not a…conventional relationship, and we agreed to look at the pitfalls. Certainly the situation…”

“Situation?”

Harry tries to explain: “As his boss, I had the authority to assign him to missions. And when it came to a…certain type, I…redirected them to someone else.”

“Certain type?”

 _She doesn’t know,_ Harry remembers, with a cold feeling in his gut. _She doesn’t know._

“The…” Harry closes his eyes, forcing himself to stay calm. She doesn’t deserve his breaking down. Lee was her husband, not his. “The nature of…Lee’s death. I didn’t want...”

“He wasn’t shot, was he?” Ms. Unwin’s tone becomes duller, retreating back into coolness, but her eyes begin to become watery. “It’s…the same as Eggsy’s accident. Isn’t it?”

Harry only nods, and Ms. Unwin covers her mouth with both hands as she did eighteen years ago, sobbing quietly beneath her palms, eyes squeezed tight.

He doesn't know whether to leave or to stay. To exit seems crass, but he is not her friend and can’t possibly be of comfort. Harry doesn't know what words to say, and just as he did eighteen years ago, focuses on Eggsy. The doctors had just bathed him yesterday, and Harry now strokes his hair, careful to avoid the fuzzy bristles where they'd been shaved for operation. There's a line of neat stitches criss-crossing on his pale skin. If Ms. Unwin wasn't here, he'd bend down and kiss Eggsy’s forehead, but in her presence, only dares to touch Eggsy’s hand or arm and nothing else.

Ms. Unwin takes a long, shuddering breath, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve. Harry, with some hesitation, offers her his handkerchief—unused, of course—and she silently takes it, blowing her nose and placing it on her lap. 

“Lee saved your life,” she finally says. "That's what you said all those years back." 

“Yes.”

“That does sound like him.” Ms. Unwin looks at her son, then takes his hand again. “Did Eggsy save you too?”

“Not in this instance, no.” Harry admits. “But he did save the saves of hundreds of others. He showed a remarkably cool head, and I—Kingsman, too—couldn’t be prouder.” It sounds like words at a funeral, so he has to stop.

“He always cared very strongly,” Ms. Unwin says. “When he was younger, he…” She pauses, but chooses to continue in sharing a tidbit of Eggsy’s past: “He tried to adopt several animals off the street. Once even ran out in front of a car to save some stray cat.” Shaking her head, she smiles a little. “I was so mad at him.”

“That sounds like him.” Harry then says, remembering, “He crashed a car to save a fox in the road. Could have continued on through the streets of London all night, but he couldn't hurt it.” And how could he have forgotten that? He shouldn't have been surprised that Eggsy refused to shoot his dog, yet...that’s something he loves about Eggsy, his kindness and compassion, no matter how reckless he might be. “That's how we met, in a fashion.”

Ms. Unwin leans slightly forward, curious. “That’s one thing he did tell me. You got him released.”

“I did,” Harry confirms.

“And did you recruit him right away?”

“No,” he says honestly. “I had another picked out. But...Eggsy changed my mind rather quickly.” He can't stop the fond, amused smile on his lips.

Ms. Unwin tilts her head, saying nothing once more, but Harry doesn't think there's a trace of hostility in it. 

* * *

“Eggsy. Eggsy, darling.”

He’s unresponsive, but Harry continues undeterred, even at this late hour. Ms. Unwin has gotten up to talk to one of the doctors, so Harry is alone with Eggsy for the first time all day. Even after a year and his slightly scrambled memories, Harry remembers a soft voice talking to him, a light weight on his arm, a faint jingling of what must have been JB’s tags.

He can give Eggsy this.

“The doctors say you are going to wake up. I believe you can.” He takes Eggsy’s hand and touches it to his lips. “You’ve been through so much. Too much. And I've tried so very hard to make it up to you, to your family, but I realize that I can't. And I'm always going to regret that.” Harry takes a sharp, shuddering breath. “I love you. I love you very much. But even if you hate me, please wake up. If not for me, for your mother. Your sister. Roxy. Merlin. There are people here who love you. Who need you.” Eggsy’s eyes are still closed without so much as a flutter. “I’m so sorry, Eggsy So, so sorry.”  

His lips press against Eggsy’s forehead. _Wake up. Wake up._

But Eggsy doesn’t.

* * *

There’s a turning point. No, he and Ms. Unwin aren’t friends—far from it—but it seems as if they’re putting aside what they can for Eggsy. They both sit with him, watch and help the doctors massage Eggsy’s unresponsive limbs, and smooth back the hair on his forehead. Talking to the doctors and doing what she can seems to help Ms. Unwin, and Harry, too. They feel as if they’re doing something, Harry thinks, something in order to help Eggsy wake up.

Now, he’s shaving Eggsy's face, careful and steady, blade parting cream and hair. Ms. Unwin watches him as he works, eyes watching his tender touch, his caution. They don't speak, but it has less traces of Lee Unwin's ghost between them. Harry wouldn't call it companionable exactly, but it's comfortable enough that they make small talk about what Daisy's been up to, a little bit about her friends, and the weather this week. "It's pretty cold, and Charlotte says it might snow soon," she says, keeping an eye on Daisy as she colors, laying on her stomach on the floor. "Might take Daisy out ice skating at the Tower of London if it keeps going like this." 

"That sounds like fun." Eggsy had mentioned doing that, teaching his sister to skate, even though he hadn't been on the ice since he was a kid. Harry's no better. Turning to Daisy, Harry asks, "Are you looking forward to it?" 

Daisy tilts her head up to look at him and smiles shyly, holding one blue crayon in her hand. "Yes," she says, nearly inaudible. 

Ms. Unwin raises her eyebrows. "You doesn't usually talk to strangers," she comments. 

"Stranger?" Daisy glances from Harry to Ms. Unwin, looking worried, ready to crawl back to her mother. 

"I know him, and Eggsy knows him, love," Ms. Unwin says soothingly. "He's not a stranger." 

Satisfied, Daisy continues coloring, and he and Ms. Unwin watch her scribble the grass indigo blue and the trees a lurid shade of pinkish-purple, then begins drawing what looks like Roxy's poodle with the very tip of the black crayon, spinning out candy floss clouds among the blue grass. She seems content, humming some nonsensical tune under her breath, and Ms. Unwin's eyes are soft as Daisy lifts up the picture for her approval. 

"Good, Daisy," she says, clapping a little. "That's very nice. Do you want to write your name in the sky?" 

Daisy shrugs, an obvious gesture picked up from her brother, and Harry can't help but smile at her, putting down the razor very carefully on the side table. "All artists write their names on their pictures. Do you want to be an artist?" 

Picking up a yellow crayon and studying it for what seems like a good minute, Daisy presses it to the paper and slowly, if a bit shakily, manages a wobbly  _D_. She mouths the letters as she writes them, and the end product is a bit bigger than average-sized handwriting, but none of the letters are backwards and look as they're supposed to, so Harry thinks it's an overall success. He and Ms. Unwin congratulate Daisy, her clapping again and him offering another smile, and Daisy beams, ripping it out of the book for her mother to put in her handbag.

Harry realizes he's neglected Eggsy's face and finishes the job, scraping painstakingly along the underside of the chin, cleaning and putting away the blade, and running a damp flannel along the smooth skin. 

“You love him, don’t you?” Ms. Unwin is now looking at him as if he’s on a store window display, debating on whether to buy.

Harry’s voice is quieter. “I do."

"And I assume that he loves you." 

Wearily, Harry replies, "Despite my good intentions, in the end, I misused my position and denied Eggsy his autonomy. If he wants to walk away, I can hardly blame him.”

“Oh, fucking  _stop_ ,” Ms. Unwin snaps. “Your martyring—it’s…” She shakes her head, clearly tired. “You’re not the only one. There are so many things both of us could have done differently.” Taking a deep breath, she continues, “Look. I can’t say I don’t want him near danger. But…” Ms. Unwin takes a deep breath. “He’s not a kid anymore. He’s past that. And we both don’t always see that.”

 _Both_. “No,” he agrees, “we don’t.”

“It’s hard,” she says, then wipes a dot of shaving cream off that Harry had missed. “It’s real hard.” Ms. Unwin shakes her head. “I look at him, and I...I don’t see that boy who needed help with tying his shoes or...with Dean.” It’s the first time she’s mentioned her ex-husband, and her hands twist in her lap, slightly trembling. “He’s different now. A bit older, bit more confident.”

“Yes,” Harry says, “I’m proud of him. He’s...reached his potential.”

“Very Henry Higgins of you,” Ms. Unwin says dryly.

Harry can’t help smiling. Like mother, like son. “I don’t love him for the person I made him to be, if I could really say I made him at all. I love him for...him.” And he knows, even though he’s not quite sure Ms. Unwin would want to hear it, when it all began: in a different room, in a different time, but with the same _My Fair Lady_ reference.

* * *

A few days later, Harry’s just finished reading through another tedious budget plan when his glasses chime.

“He’s awake,” Merlin tells him, and Harry’s already off and running, slamming the office door against the wall, tearing through corridors, about to throw open the door—

And sees Ms. Unwin, her arms around her son, burying her face into his neck, lips moving frantically. _You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive._ She tilts his chin up, up to look into those eyes, that face that resembles Lee so much. _Oh, Eggsy. Eggsy._

Harry finds that he can’t disturb them in a moment such as this and turns around, backing quietly down the hallway.  


	4. beginning

 

 

* * *

 "It's going to be a long rehabilitation process," Dr. Seng warns. "But by the end, you should be fully recovered."

Michelle watches her son frown at his pale, skinny legs hanging down from the hospital bed, rotating his arms and shoulders to critically study the lack of muscle. The skin grafts have been removed a long time ago, and he's been allowed to be taken off the various machines and IVs, but Eggsy still moves stiffly, grimacing at the changes to his body. His jawline is less sharp, his cheekbones gaunt, and his hair is in desperate need of a trim. He can barely keep standing for long periods of time, weakened as he is, and sometimes, can’t quite remember a few short-term memories, but he’s alive.

That’s what matters.

Standing by Michelle's side, Daisy looks up at him, gingerly touching his arm with a soft, deliberate poke of her fingers, and Eggsy smiles at her, even though he’s obviously exhausted and sore. 

“We'll run more tests later, and he’ll need extensive physical therapy,” Dr. Seng continues, “but we’re going to build up to it slowly.”

“I’d like to help in any way I can,” Michelle insists.

“Of course,” Dr. Seng says. “But for now, I think it’s best if your son rests.”

“I’ve been asleep for, a few months?” Eggsy asks crossly. “And you want me to rest?”

“ _Eggsy_ ,” Michelle scolds.

“No, no, it’s quite all right,” Dr. Seng reassures her, then turns to Eggsy, hands on her hips. “Yes, you do. You know those medical dramas and miracle movies out there? Well, they’re all wrong when it comes to waking up from a coma. You’re not going to be able to hop out of bed and start going back to normal. You need to build up your strength first, and you can’t do that if your head is already nodding.”

Eggsy sighs, resigned, but lays back on the pillows. “I’ll b’good.”

“Good.” Dr. Seng writes something on his chart, then nods. “If you’re up to it later, you can have some light broth and perhaps your mother can wheel you around for a bit.”

“Not outside?”

“No, I’m afraid you’re just going up and down the halls for now.” Dr. Seng smiles, then shakes his hand. "We're glad to have you back, Eggsy. You had us really worried for the better part of a few months. But," she adds optimistically, "you didn't miss Christmas." 

Eggsy's eyes brighten, and Michelle can see him thinking about presents bundled under a tree, roaring fireplaces with stockings stuffed with Christmas crackers and candies, a table groaning under the weight of a large feast, ice skating at the Tower of London, and walking through the snow-covered streets in the crisp, cool air. "At least I'm that lucky," he jokes. 

"And if you  _don't push yourself,_ you'll be recovered in time for the holidays." Dr. Seng jabs a finger into his chest. "And that means, as much as you despise the idea, bed rest. Now." 

Eggsy sighs again, but obediently swings his legs up on the bed and lets his head fall onto the pillows. “Yeah, all right.” His eyes are already fluttering. “Don’t sound too bad.”

His voice is already slurring, and Michelle takes Daisy’s hand. “Time to go, love,” she murmurs, then raises her voice: “I’ll be there when you wake up, all right, Eggsy?”

He's already asleep, but she takes that as a confirmation and, with one last look, slips out. 

* * *

The days are long, but are still shorter than when Eggsy was in a coma. For the first few weeks, Eggsy rests, gets probed by what seems like the entire medical team, and attempts standing and walking. He seems frustrated at the slow progress, used to being able to parkour to the moon and back, but never takes it out on the staff or his visitors. Michelle helps him hold court in his hospital room, stringing up some Christmas lights and tinsel to give it a bit of a holiday cheer, and lets him read a chapter or two to Daisy, who managed to wheedle a beanbag chair out of one of the doctors. 

Roxy comes now and then, apologizing profusely until Eggsy authorizes an official Apology Ban. Some of his coworkers pop in as well, bearing grapes and whiskey—which Eggsy really can’t drink for a long time, but it’s the thought that counts. Merlin—someone who’s sat down and talked with her occasionally—tells him sternly to not push himself and leaves him with a lovely-smelling stew.

And Hart.

Hart, despite his late night confession—which, yes, she heard—is barely in to see Eggsy, and she can see her son deflate with every visit. They hold hands, but neither of them say much of anything, and the awkward atmosphere permeates the room so much that Michelle actually gets up and leaves, hoping that they talk when she’s out.

They do not.

* * *

Eggsy's somewhat different from the earnest young man in the suit, showing her and Daisy around those houses near Stanhope Mews, as if everything of these past months have knocked something out of him. Dr. Seng had been right about the slow, long road to recovery, and she can see what a toll it is on Eggsy on top of what's knocking about in his head. 

Some days, Eggsy's too tired to do little more than sit up and watch the telly. Michelle is with him when he reluctantly moves the food around on his tray and forces himself to eat, when he leans back with his eyes closed to the sound of Daisy attempting to go through a picture book, when he can only do more but nod with an occasional faint grin when visitors come.  

Some days, Eggsy has enough strength to really do his physical therapy, which at first involves seeing if he can stretch his fingers, his arms, his legs, and his shoulders; swing around his limbs; wiggle his fingers and toes; slowly rotate his neck and wrists and ankles spine and and shoulders; and attempt walking across at the room at various speeds with the help of parallel bars. He begins to graduate to tugging ropes and pulleys, to lifting small weights, to doing some simple yoga poses. She sees him trembling with the effort to keep himself upright, sweat soaking his forehead and back, trying to fight against the aches and mutiny of his body. When Eggsy's having a bad day, he collapses on a cushioned table and receives massages and tiny electrode shocks. 

Some days, Eggsy gets to go around the manor with someone watching him, looking relieved to be somewhere other than his hospital room. It's best for him if he gets to go outside, carefully bundled in layers of scarves and gloves and hats and jackets, but the first time Eggsy had been able to set foot outside, he'd craned his neck upwards, trying to feel the wind on whatever skin it could touch and sucking the cold air into his lungs. 

Michelle isn't always with him; she has to be at her job or with Daisy, but Roxy regularly updates her on his progress, sending her texts like  _Eggsy just called the soup Dr. Seng assigned him "against the Geneva Convention"_ and  _he's doing another movie marathon—theme: the eighties._ The store has more customers coming in to buy winter clothes for their kids, and Irene, promoted to supervisor, sometimes stands at the cashier with Michelle to check people out as fast as they can. Some of the parents are impatient, huffing every time the employees aren't moving at the speed of light, and some of the kids squirm and knock hangers or hats off the displays.

Irene asks about Eggsy, and Michelle lies, telling her that Eggsy got into a car accident, then has to come up with a reason why Irene can't visit and bring him flowers. 

"Family only, they say, sorry," she says, "but if you still want to get him something, I can take it."

She repeats the same lie to Molly and Charlotte, which spreads to Ryan and Jamal, who all send over pot pies and pastries and get well soon cards and—in Ryan's and Jamal's cases—horror films and obscene amounts of Jaffa cakes. Already, Michelle's aware of the secret she's carrying, that she'll have to keep doing this the rest of her life to friends and coworkers and Daisy. She's still waiting for the next question, the  _how did Eggsy get hurt?_ Daisy's been in hospitals, has seen Michelle and Eggsy in right states themselves, but hadn't asked why then and still hasn't worked up to that stage now. 

Michelle's already prepared a lie that builds upon the one she's already told:  _Eggsy was on a business trip and got into a car accident. He hit his head and slept for a while. I was very worried, but he woke up, and everything's fine now, love._

She wonders if Daisy, when she grows up and gets to the point where the presents and business trips get frustrating instead of fun, will look back on this one and dig deeper. But hopefully, she won't remember much but vague, fuzzy little details—but Michelle can't shake off the likelihood of this happening again, of more excuses to tell. 

And there's more she'll have to figure out how to explain:  _Your dad was a bad man; that's why he's away._

That's only the beginning. 

* * *

It's at Tesco's when Michelle's trying to figure out what she needs for the fridge. She hasn't really cooked at the house in a while, getting takeaway or meals from the Kingsman's cafeteria, and now that Eggsy might come home soon, she's thinking about getting something into him. Halfway through tossing a box of pasta in the cart, she remembers he's living with Hart, which means they'll likely spend Christmas together either at his house or hers, unless it all went pear-shaped, and it  _will_ go pear-shaped if Hart keeps acting like he's slowing down Eggsy's recovery when he's in the same room. 

Daisy, in her high seat, kicks impatiently, and Michelle gives her a plastic bag of grapes, ruffling her hair. "We'll be out of here soon, love," she says.

But her daughter, warm in her winter clothes and trapped in a cart, is slowly getting more and more fussy as the hour goes by, and if this keeps up, Michelle will have to park her cart somewhere safe and take Daisy out of the store to calm her down. Michelle looks around, hoping for some sort of kid's toy she can put back on the shelf when this is over, but can't see anything but crisps and biscuits and magazines in sight.

Magazines. They had pictures, didn't they? Michelle snatches the first one that seems to be catered towards kids, something with bubble font and bright pictures and large words, and places it in Daisy's hands. "Be gentle with that, love," she says, glancing at the price. And well, if Daisy ends up ripping one of the pages, there would be no harm in buying it.

She opens to a random page, a short story about a polar bear, pointing out the illustration before looking around for the last of the items on her list. To her relief, Daisy's quiet, staring and tracing her hand over the thin pages, and Michelle's able to get them into the long check-out line without any fuss. The cashier is scanning items as quickly as he can, but people are getting restless, pulling out their phones and shifting their feet, waiting to crawl forward.

"...No—"

At the sound of Daisy's voice, Michelle bites her lip, wondering if she's starting to get fussy again, but freezes when she hears the next words: 

"No sun in the winter," Daisy reads, slowly and faltering, eyes moving across the page in front of her. "Snow is falling. The bear wakes up to run around—" 

Michelle's quiet, afraid to break the spell, even when Daisy stumbles and sometimes skips over a few words. People are chattering around her, but she only has ears for Daisy, listening until she finishes, "And he fell sleep, warm and cozy. The end." 

For a moment, she wonders if Daisy has come across this story somewhere or memorized it like a few of her picture books, but  _no._ Daisy read a new story. Out loud. 

"Dais," she says, stunned, then scoops her up in a hug. Some of the customers in line stare, but Michelle doesn't give a damn because she's so fucking _proud_. "You did it!" 

* * *

Michelle tells Eggsy the next time she visits, and Eggsy cheers, high-fiving his sister. "Guess I should get her new reading material, then, if I ever get out of here." 

"Cabin fever?" she asks. 

"Yeah," Eggsy says, looking like the stray cats around the estate, ready to bolt at a moment's notice. "And it's frustrating, you know. Just...not being able to leave this room without someone escorting me." He shrugs. "And I haven't seen Rox in a while 'cause she got pneumonia or something from...from one of her trips. So, I'm sort of on quarantine." 

"Does anyone else visit you?"

"Merlin, yeah. The doctors..." He hesitates, then says, "Harry. Sometimes." 

Michelle raises her eyebrows. "Sometimes?" 

"Yeah. it's..." Eggsy shrugs again, seemingly indifferent. "I dunno. He doesn't...it's not the same between us." He waves his hand in the air. "Can't remember some shit, but that's not all the problem. It's just...we had an argument. Before we left." 

"I know." 

" _You_ know?"

"He and I...may have talked while you were in your coma," Michelle admits. She  _still_ can't believe they'd been in the same room for months on end, and if given a choice under different circumstances...well, it wouldn't be her first choice, but it wouldn't be torture, either. It's easier to step back and look at that old, stiff posh twat she'd regarded Hart as and see just how complicated everything was, someone who was still in a right state of things. Growing up, she'd thought that adults learned to get it together, and of course, by now, she knows that's not true, but still, she's a bit surprised that Hart, who has a good few years on her, is one big fucking human disaster who, with all his flaws, has _somewhat_ of a good side she didn't consider existing. 

It's Eggsy's turn to raise his eyebrows. "You and Harry. Talked."

"Not extensively," she says, bending over to pick up Daisy and bouncing her around a bit when she starts making impatient noises. "But we did. Hashed out a few things." Her hands twist in her lap. "Lee, for one thing."

Her son tilts his head. "And...what happened? Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Michelle says, surprised that she means it. It's as if she'd been walking this whole time with a heavy pack, only to find out that it had been lifted off without her noticing. "Yeah, I'm all right. And he explained...everything, but I'd like to hear from you, Eggsy. Your side of the story. About the argument." 

Eggsy sighs, looking lost. He's long since changed out of the hospital scrubs, allowed to wear his old clothes, but his shirt and sweats hang off of his body differently than they used to, making him look a bit smaller. "I don't know. I was...I was fucking furious. Like he couldn't trust me to do my job and was just...we'd argued about this, too, a year ago." His expression becomes tighter, and his fists clench in his lap. "I...we said some pretty shitty things to each other and we were just out of control and I said...something awful and he just lashed out. Told me that the only reason he'd recruited me, believed in me, was to repay his debt to my dad, implied that he only liked me for some fucked up redemption quest."

Michelle gasps, startling Daisy, and Eggsy winces, scowling when he begins to talk again. "Yeah, I didn't like that at all. But we didn't get that far into it because...well, it was before V-Day." 

A horrible thought enters her head, stinging her between her ribs. She remembers the cleaver and the smashed-in door, her hold tightening in Daisy in her arms. Her fingers run through her daughter's curls, soft and beginning to turn a dark brown like hers and Eggsy's. "Did he attack you?" 

"What? No!" Eggsy vehemently shakes his head. "No, Mum. He was overseas, and I thought...I thought he was dead for a while. And when he came back...we didn't exactly talk about it. I think we were too excited to see each other again, just wanted to start fresh and get involved in Kingsman again and decide what we were going to do with ourselves." He smiles, obviously lost in a memory. "Roxy and a few people around here had bets on what was going to happen, and Roxy won. He asked me to dinner, but I initiated...uh..."

"I don't want to know the details," Michelle says quickly. She'd hold up her hands if Daisy hadn't been in them. 

"Yeah, uh." Eggsy's ears are red, his cheek so flushed, but the smile is now gone from his face. "Well. Long story short, we didn't bring up...my dad again, what we said and all. And I guess...it came to a head. What he did was shitty, but...the way he acts." Eggsy shakes his head, frustration seeping into his voice. "He's putting everything on him again. Being some kind of martyr. Thinks he doesn't deserve anything." 

"What do you want to do?" Michelle asks, hoping that Eggsy doesn't ask  _her_ what to do. She barely would know how to begin. 

"I don't know," Eggsy admits. "I don't have a fucking clue."

* * *

She’s known for quite some time that Eggsy’s frustration and anger has been building up slowly. In their old life, he would have rushed out the door to blow off steam with Ryan and Jamal or picked a fight with one of Dean’s mates, but Eggsy can’t go anywhere, and after his one outburst to Dr. Seng, won’t so much as raise his voice at anyone. He’s always unfailingly polite to everyone, smiling and cracking jokes, but always sinks back into sullen silence after they leave.

Michelle wavers between being patient and wanting to smack her boy upside the head most days, and today is no exception. They’re in the gym in the manor—larger than a few of the neighborhoods she knows, Michelle had thought—with Eggsy attempting to do some sprinting on the treadmill instead of his usual speed-walking and light jogging. Michelle sees his fingers tremble on the horizontal bar, his heart rate beeping, his shirt soaked with sweat, but he keeps at it, determined and stubborn. 

It's when his limbs begin to slow down when Eggsy sighs in frustration, trying to move faster, but the belt of the treadmill keeps gradually speeding up. Just about when Eggsy's about to slip, Michelle runs over and presses down on the red emergency stop button, keeping a hold on Eggsy until he steps off, legs wobbling when his feet touch the rubber-matted floor. His heart is pounding wildly underneath her palm, and he's rather heavily, ribs expanding and contracting sharply. 

“Perhaps you should take a rest," Michelle suggests. “There’s only so much that can be done in one day.”

“I can do it,” Eggsy insists, and one foot inches towards the treadmill again. “I did it just a few days ago—”

“Progress is not always a straight line," she replies, tugging back. “You need a lie-down.”

The familiar, stubborn set of Eggsy's jaw comes back in full-force. "Mum, I need to re-qualify to get back into the field—"

“You do,” Michelle agrees, then injects a firmness in her voice. “But not this minute, yeah? Don’t be so hard on yourself.” She crosses her arms, wondering if Daisy will turn out as headstrong as her brother, which leads to wondering about what else Daisy will emulate from Eggsy, which leads to Kingsman. God, she doesn't want to think about that just yet. "I can talk to Dr. Seng or your physical therapist about this, you know."

Thankfully, almost miraculously, he relents. “All right, all right,” he agrees. “I will.”

Eggsy allows her to walk him to his room, even help him up onto the bed. It isn't in the medical wing; it's his own suite within the mansion, and provided that he doesn't go wandering around, he's allowed to stay there.

"You all right?" Michelle asks. Something's not quite right, but she can't put a finger on it, and feels a familiar mixture of frustration and confusion twist in her, not knowing what her son's actually thinking, hiding it behind a smile or a scowl. "Eggsy..."

"Fine, Mum," he says quickly. "Just want some rest, I swear."

Sighing, she kisses him on the forehead, ruffles his hair, and leaves him be. "I'll be down the hall with Daisy," she reminds him. "Knock if you need me."  

* * *

Michelle wakes from what seems like a two-second nap to the sound of voices, and with a quick glance at a sleeping Daisy, cracks the door open to the hallway. 

"...just wanted to wander around, hardly life-threatening—"

“Eggsy,” Hart sternly says, “Please return to your bed. I’ll help you—”

"Jesus, Harry, just let me do this  _one_ thing—"

"Merlin noticed that you snuck out and that you were heading in the direction of the gym."

"I..."

"Eggsy. I don't want to order you, but if you insist on exacerbating your recovery—"

“ _Order_?” Eggsy scoffs. “Seriously? We're back to this?"

Michelle hears a slight hiss of air being sucked into teeth. "Eggsy, I don't  _want_ to be your superior about this. I want..." There's a hesitant pause, then shifts into unending patience, almost infuriating calmness: “I know you’re frustrated—”

“Of course I’m fucking _frustrated_!” Eggsy lashes out. “I’ve been in a coma for months, still can't re-qualify for fieldwork, and can’t even take two steps without someone rushing up to check up on me. All while you and Rox and everyone around here is saving the world, and I’m trapped here with nothing to show for it!”

They both fall silent, and the only sound in the hallway is Eggsy’s own heavy breathing. Michelle quietly opens the door another crack and sees both of them standing face-to-face, Eggsy swaying a little on his feet. 

Hart takes a deep breath. “You’ve been making progress…”

“Not fast enough!” Eggsy snaps. “Just…just leave me alone, okay? You were doing that perfectly well before." 

“I…” Hart opens and closes his mouth, fists at his sides trembling, then finally turns away, lowering his head. “We're both exhausted, and we should continue this discussion in the morning, hopefully when we're better rested." 

“See how it is, then,” Eggsy mutters, putting his hands in his pockets. "Guess we're back to square one." 

"We don't have to be." 

"It's like you want to be." 

"Eggsy..." Hart pleads. She can hear the frustration turned against himself, the words not being able to come, the straddling between giving Eggsy his independence and showing him what he cares. 

"Just go," Eggsy says, and he sounds bone-weary. "I love you, but just go, _Arthur_. Please." 

Michelle doesn’t know exactly where that came from, but Hart obeys, turning around and beginning to walk down the long stretch of hallway. Eggsy's still standing in place, watching him leave, and Michelle slowly pushes her door open and closes it carefully behind her. His head whips up at the sound, shoulders tensing, but immediately relaxes when he sees that it's her. 

"Guess you heard all that," Eggsy says dully. 

There's no use denying it. "Yes, I did, Eggs." 

He sighs. "I just...I'm sorry, but I wanted to just try again. I don't like being stuck in here. Haven't left the manor in...months, and I'm starting to think I won't."

Michelle places a hand on his shoulder and briefly rubs a few, slow circles. She's imagined Eggsy, after she realized the full extent of what he'd been doing, driving sleek cars down busy streets, leaping from rooftop to rooftop in a chase, exchanging heavy gunfire, ducking in and out of a fancy party in a suit, sparring with Roxy. The inside of the manor seems pretty dull after all that. “I’m not much of a pep talker, Eggs. But I can tell you that you will.”

Eggsy shakes his head, scoffing a little under his breath. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I’m your son.”

“I’m saying it _because_ you’re my son,” Michelle corrects. “I’ve seen you, Eggsy. You’re a survivor. You can get through this.”

“And what what’s going to happen if I do?”

“ _When_ you do,” Michelle stresses, then shrugs. “But I don’t know. But wouldn’t be it interesting to find out?”

Eggsy laughs, and she's relieved to see a soft smile on his face. “See, you aren’t as bad as a pep talker as you thought.”

"Good," she says, then lightly knocks his shoulder. "Get back to bed. I mean it this time." 

* * *

After Eggsy's settled in, Michelle catches a glimpse of Merlin in the hallway and stops him for a minute. She gets what she wants from him, then immediately storms over to a door just tucked around the corner from Eggsy's room and knocks, loud and demanding.

When Hart opens the door, bewildered and blinking in a—frankly—ugly red robe, she jabs a finger in his face. "Don't be an idiot.”

Hart visibly startles. "I—"

"If you love him as much as you said you did, you better not be pulling away. Not now." Michelle folds her arms, looking Hart right in the eye. “He came back to you," she says sharply, with a catch in her voice. "Do you realize how lucky you are?"

For a long time, Hart doesn’t speak, hanging his head, and Michelle doesn’t move, waiting for him to open his mouth.  

“Ms. Unwin,” he manages.

"Don't say anything," she insists, “not unless it's a promise to get your arse in gear and see my son. Properly." 

Michelle turns on her heel to go back to her room, back to Daisy, and once she rounds the corner, she sighs. No, she’s not going to invite him to dinner any time soon, but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t make sure her son is happy.

* * *

The next morning, Harry and Eggsy have identical dark circles around their eyes and pale, pasty faces. Dr. Seng berates them both for staying up until all hours of the night, but Michelle stands there silently, taking in their linked hands. 

* * *

There’s another stop, something that she’d told Eggsy she’d consider. It’s easy enough to ask Merlin for an appointment, but not so easy to start talking.

Morgana has silver hair falling over her shoulders and clipboard that acts like a tablet, but she also has patience. She starts Michelle off with her current worries about Eggsy, what happened during the coma, and Michelle finds it easier to talk about than the other things in her life. So she talks about being afraid and feeling angry and helpless, and Morgana listens.

Then, week by week, as Eggsy grows stronger and stronger, Michelle finally says, “And…that’s what I’m afraid of. After V-Day…”

* * *

She comes out feeling a bit lighter—not completely better, mind you, but on her way. 

* * *

Finally, they're all out together, taking a stroll around London. Today is mostly bright and clear, with some snow clinging to sidewalks and the corners of windows. Daisy's holding on tightly to Michelle's hand, looking curiously at the store display windows, and Michelle has a cup of hot chocolate in her other hand, taking periodic sips. They'd paid a quick visit to Irene, who cooed over Daisy and kept shooting Michelle little curious glances about her son having his arm slung around his boss. Michelle personally can't wait to see how Charlotte will react when they pop in on her, Molly, Jamal, and Ryan sometime this week.  _All the good-looking men are on the other bus,_ she'd probably lament, with a forgiving smirk, then try to pry every detail out of Eggsy. 

Eggsy's finally able to walk without support, but is still leaning against Harry anyway. They’re talking rather seriously, heads close together, and she can see it, the way Harry looks at her son, the way they look at each other. Maybe it’s not quite what she expected years ago, but her son is happy, and that's one of the main things she wants. And with Dean gone, there are a lot of roads of potential where she can go. She'd have to think about Daisy, but maybe—

She's must not be paying close attention because she feels something slightly soft underneath her boot, and Eggsy turns around, lifting his heel briefly to inspect it. 

“Mum,” Eggsy says, but is smiling. 

“Eggsy,” she says teasingly, ruffling his hair, then nods. “Harry.”

Harry’s eyes widen for a bit, but nods at her. “Ms. Unwin.”

“Michelle is fine,” she says, then, ignoring Harry’s shock, “I was thinking. And I like my job and Irene, but…”

“You want to do something else,” Eggsy guesses, then tilts his head curiously. "What are you thinking about?" 

"I don’t know," she admits. "I was in training to be a nurse before Lee went, and I tried...but it was too hard to keep up. No, don't blame yourself, Eggsy. But I was thinking about doing it again." 

"You can do it, Mum," Eggsy says, grinning, and Harry nods in silent support. "I know it." 

And yeah. 

She probably can.


End file.
